


Shine On, Bright

by earthkidsareweird



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019), The Shining (1980), The Shining - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Bad Parent Martin Whitly, Gen, Inspired by The Shining, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Protective Gil Arroyo, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 78,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24602095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthkidsareweird/pseuds/earthkidsareweird
Summary: Malcolm Bright cannot ignore his past.It haunts him more than the ghosts he sees.When eight bodies are found in a single junkyard, Malcolm will need to face both haunted memories and ghosts as a serial killer begs for his attention.A serial killer who knows Malcolm well and his father better all from when the Whitlys and him crossed paths more than a lifetime ago at the Overlook Hotel.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly
Comments: 30
Kudos: 25





	1. One: Past

**Author's Note:**

> Vague Character Crossover:  
> Malcolm Bright=Danny Torrance  
> Martin Whitly=Jack Torrance  
> Jessica Whitly=Wendy Torrance  
> Gil Arroyo=Dick Hollaran  
> Junkyard Killer=Lloyd  
> The Cabin=Overlook Hotel

# One

**Past**

Tommy’s back again, and Malcolm Whitly didn’t know to admit the ultimate truth: He’s moving away. It wasn’t like it was some sort of secret. Also, Tommy never even asked. There was even a moving truck out front and yet the two sat across from one another. There were probably a lot more interesting things to do out there yet neither of them bothered. The city screamed, people passed them by on the sidewalk, and yet Malcolm and Tommy rolled a ball back and forth.

Finally, Malcolm found the right words. “I’m moving.”

“I know,” replied Tommy with a gentle nudge for the ball. Somebody stormed around them grunting about kids, but Malcolm wasn’t even really a _kid_. “Colorado.”

Wasn’t even a question, but a statement. Tommy knew. Malcolm couldn’t find it in himself to smile back because he wasn’t sure he wanted Tommy to already know. “Mother says mountains are out there.” Malcolm paused thinking about the way she mentioned this with an eye roll and into a glass of wine. “I don’t think she likes mountains.”

“People die in the mountains, all the time,” replied Tommy.

But Malcolm shrugged. “People die in the city all the time.” He rolled the ball right back to Tommy who caught it and held onto it. They stare at one another letting the comment weigh them down. It was something Malcolm saw in passing if he stayed up later than his mother said and he caught her or his father watching television or he’d see a newspaper about death in the big city before it was swept away into a trashcan by his mother. Such articles always made a reappearance, his father fishing them from the garbage and bringing them into his study to read. “I think we’ll be fine.”

Except Tommy clung to the ball while staring at Malcolm who felt his heart flutter a tad bit faster. He told himself, must be something he ate that day. Heartburn or something. But his heart felt swollen while it beat real fast, courtesy of Tommy’s stare.

“You’re not though.” Tommy even shook his head to make a point.

“I’m not?”

“You won’t be safe in Colorado.”

“Because the mountains are dangerous?” Malcolm put a hand to his chest, a slight tremor ran through his hand.

“Not mountains.” Tommy paused and tilted his head in the direction of his home. The only answer he provided was, “Because of him.”

“MALCOLM!” Jessica interrupted the moment, Malcolm’s mother. She stood on the front steps with his younger sister beside her. The two held hands. Jessica stared at Malcolm as he reached out catching the ball roll back to him. “Who are you talking to?”

But right when Malcolm went to say _Tommy_ he caught the ball and stared across from him finding Tommy wasn’t there. But. He knew that already, he knew Tommy was never there. Malcolm clung to the ball while he continued to sit there. Jessica would become too flustered again if he brought up an imaginary friend. The stuff of childhood and being ten meant he wasn’t much of a child anymore.

“Nobody,” replied Malcolm as he got up headed toward the two only to pause at the bottom of their front steps. “Dad is home.”

“What are you. . .” 

Jessica came close to finishing the question but a car horn interrupted her as Martin Whitly pulled up in some beat-up car that does not look like it’ll make it all the way to Colorado. There was a lot of land between them and whatever future was to come. Martin waved to them from where he sat in the driver’s seat. There was something erratic about the way he waved to them that neither Jessica, Malcolm, nor Ainsley moved to visit him there. 

“My family!” Martin yelled from the car, he was all smiles. “I hope you’re ready to leave, next stop, the Overlook Hotel.”

Still, Jessica, Malcolm, and Ainsley failed to make a comment on the matter. Only Ainsley made a move, she clung to their mother’s hand looking up at her. Jessica just lets out one long, exasperated sigh.

“Don’t worry, we’ll stop at bathrooms first.” Martin laughed as he climbed out of the car leaving it parked behind the moving truck. “What, do you think I’m insane? About 1,797 miles are between us and our future home.” He stopped beside Malcolm, ruffling his hair. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and see a giant ball of yarn.”

Jessica provided no comment. Instead, she walked inside, rolling her eyes while hanging onto Ainsley. She wanted no part of this madness and yet Martin had to leave if any of them ever wanted to lead the right lives in the future. Inside, she glanced at Malcolm almost forgetting his earlier comment. She squeezed Ainsley’s hand too tight, she protested. But Jessica stared right at Malcolm with Martin rattling off what to do next because in an hour, they’ll be on the road. _Dad is home_. It wasn’t even a regular time for Martin to come home yet he knew. Malcolm looked at her, he attempted to smile while looking guilty over something like he read her thoughts. It had to be nothing. The perfect phrase to tell herself. _It had to be nothing_ or _That was nothing_. Words that would come back to haunt her because they allowed a lot of people to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pretend soundtrack to this [Shine On, Bright on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2JN6ntQKDAJYvWX6LBH2iY)


	2. Two: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm Bright is haunted by ghosts and memories as he explores a car that once belonged to his dad in a junkyard.

# Two

**Present**

The problem with memories is that they’re like ghosts.

They’re always out there to haunt you.

Malcolm is no stranger to being haunted by the dead and his memories.

With a flashlight in hand, he lets memories lead him towards a junkyard. Somehow he found the correct path, he’d been out wandering the city until it formed by his toes like a tightrope leading him straight towards his past. If his mother knew, she’d tell him not to go. The same for his sister, Ainsley would have no part of it. But Malcolm goes. He takes a single step at a time, making it longer than it should’ve been to cut from one city corner to the junkyard.

Whoever owned the place left it open. Rusted gates trembled even though it’s not windy out. Rather than yelling out a hello to warn a person on duty, Malcolm takes a full step inside and comes to a complete stop. His tightrope is gone, but he’s here and wherever here is means he’ll find answers.

That’s the other thing about memories being like ghosts, it’s easier for them to die as well.

Rusted metal mouths yawn on all sides of him, they’re just cars. Bones crunch underneath his feet, but that’s just glass. Malcolm moves through the night, holding onto an image of him and his father back when they first moved to Colorado. In the familiar fashion of pioneers, they moved with many promises only to take a big bite out of tragedy.

Light pollution eats up the moon and the stars, it seems to eat up street lamps around him. They loom above Malcolm providing no power. It’s Malcolm and the darkness other than the sliver of light he tosses around the junkyard trying to survey yawning cars that will return to the earth. Rust eats away all metal here. It’s clear dead cars come here to disintegrate. 

But what didn’t crumble back into the Earth is the car before him. Malcolm pauses, there’s a tarp over a station wagon, which is unlike all the other cars. Each one gapes open to the sky, collecting rain that will be its demise. But this car-this car sits about as protected as it can be in a _junk_ yard. The sliver of light doesn’t offer up much to memories other than a perfect match to the photograph. Malcolm observes it not wanting to be one who puts a lot of stoke in intuition, but he knows this is it. This is what he’s been looking for, the Girl from Room 217.

Glass shrieks underneath his feet. Broken shards moving thanks to his rubber soles and brushing against rocks. He bites the end of the flashlight as he pries the tarp from the top. It pops right off, exploding up into the air and drifting away before Malcolm can manage a good grip. Moths fling themselves upward, their little wings beating the air in an attempt to escape. Malcolm’s not there to harm them or even touch anything else in front of him. Those moths keep on fluttering around him, their thick, powdery wings adding a steady hum to the night.

One very alive memory was of a time and a place before returning to New York City where Gil Arroyo lived with them after saving the family. Gil got Malcolm. He got it because like Malcolm, he shined bright. And it was Gil who told him about the box. How to hold one in his palms to form it in his mind. When ghosts came knocking, Malcolm could shove from one darkness to his own. He’d crush ghosts into the box and locking them up forever. Some stayed and died a second death, starving without the ability to gnaw at anxiety. The others though? Malcolm’s not sure he wants to know what happens to them when he feels the emptiness inside his box. It’s like rocking a wrapped box around in an attempt to guess what’s on the inside. Wherever they go, it can’t be good. Ghosts like that don’t casually move on otherwise they wouldn’t be ghosts.

Speaking of Gil, he should be here.

But loneliness suits him better. Malcolm pops open the back thankful somebody left it unlocked. To be honest, he guessed the car sat around there waiting for his arrival, looking forward to his touch, craving him, and waiting to gaze upon him. 

Without touching the vehicle, Malcolm stares. He crinkles his nose. Rot is tucked away somewhere within the crevices of the vehicle. Unuse, too, which matches the scent of those moths beating the air. He released a sort of staleness that only tombs must understand. 

His sliver of light moves more like a blade in the night, it goes straight down, honing in what’s left of where somebody could be chained. Malcolm takes in the sight. Should be no surprise. His father slowly broke apart 23 different people as if he were seeing what made them tick. Clocks make more sounds than the consistent tick, tick, ticking even though it didn’t always feel that way. 

Malcolm struggles to pull out a blacklight. He changes the world before him with it on. White-ish smears crawl their way across the back of the car towards him. Blood. A lot of blood. But blood from the past and not this present. Rot may be soaking up in the air around him, but there’s no Girl in Room 217 here. No, it’s a beat-up old car that accidentally showed up here one day. Malcolm takes a few steps back switching to his white flashlight. The cars of serial killers don’t _just_ pop up anywhere though. Every inanimate object belonging to a killer takes a life of its own in the eyes of the public. For some to stare in disgust and others with lust.

Anxiety snakes its way through his intestines as he stares. Thanks to some peripheral spotting, Malcolm realizes, he’s not alone. He shines the light on the car while looking over to a single man watching him from the shadows. Can’t be a ghost. There’s nothing near-dead about him. If he were close to death, chubby flies would be everywhere. Their tiny little legs scattering across flesh as they tried to run over the faces of the soon-to-be-dead.

“Do you work here?” Malcolm shouts at the man, no shadow. A shadow is watching him in the junkyard and shadows can’t hurt you.

Malcolm is almost successful at playing make-believe.

 _Shadows can’t hurt you. Shadows can’t hurt you. Shadows can’t hurt you._ A shadow is the result of light being blocked before it could hit the ground so of course shadows couldn’t hurt anybody. 

“I’m Malcolm Bright from. . .”

A gunshot steals the rest of his words and thoughts. Rather than finishing the sentence or trying to convince himself that a _shadow couldn’t hurt him_ , he dives into the ground. Mini explosions ring through the air. Shards of glass nip at his knees and thighs while lying there, his stomach flat on the ground, he’s out of sight but the man remains in his sight. 

“No! HEY! WAIT!” 

Malcolm scrambles back up to his feet. The nipping glass slows him down in the process, he manages it though only it’s too late. He’s alone. Could’ve been alone all the time. _Shadows can hurt you. Shadows can hurt you. Shadows can hurt you._ Not only that but shadows love to hurt people. Malcolm stays still, apprehending a return, which never occurs. His muscles beg for relaxation. It’s been another long day, but even if he lies down, sleep won’t come and when it does, it’ll be full of unrestful tossing and turning and memories of oddities like Redrum and a Girl in Room 217.

One last look. Malcolm compares the car beside the photograph. He’s not even smiling in the image where Dr. Martin Whitly does, a huge cheshire grin as some people put it. He backs up a bit. Each step forces stinging pain to mosey its way through his body. Tomorrow he’ll get more answers. Gil can help him search. They’d find her at last. He needs to leave and pretend to be about as normal as ever with a night full of sleep and less rot grasping at his clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of dialogue, but there'll be a lot more dialogue in the future!


	3. Three: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkyard crime scene.

# Three

**Present**

The problem is the jittery (yet still subtle but not so subtle) excitement of Malcolm Bright. He’s walking beside Gil, sometimes hiding his shaking hands in pockets and other times he’s fidgeting out in the open in an attempt to explain what is happening right now. But Gil, Gil hears about every other word. He’s looking forward into the junkyard where Malcolm said he was shot at while visiting and that his father’s car was there.

Up ahead, Dani stands around, waiting for their arrival. The look of absolute disappointment is easy to spot or easy for Gil to spot. Without looking over at Malcolm and saying out loud, he does his best to snap, _You should stop._

Malcolm literally stops both moving and talking at the same time. He almost trips as he looks over at Dani. _What?_

_Something’s wrong._

With a brief survey, Malcolm knows. There’s something wrong by the way everybody is standing around. There is this attempt at carelessness while the weight of the world weighs down on each and every single present. Dani avoids eye contact while pretending to look over at Malcolm and Gil and their arrival.

“What’s going on here?” Gil interrupts a silence that’s so easy to miss. 

Gil avoids thinking all the details Malcolm told him about a station wagon he rode in to get to the Overlook Hotel. Somehow after all those years, Gil remembers it well. The vehicle pulling up into the circle right outside the hotel. While he worked as a security guard at the Overlook, he paid little attention to arrivals but somebody failed to come into work as staff disappeared for the winter. It happened every winter.

Nobody’s saying it out loud but Malcolm can feel it sizzling in the air, all hot in his brain. _Bodies._ _Murder._ _How’d he know?_ Whoever said that so loud into the wind, Malcolm didn’t even know their name. He did his best not to look over at them pretending their thoughts weren’t clear but they were all bold, red, painful. _How did he know? How did he know here?_

Good question.

But it’s not like Malcolm is going to offer them up an answer. Him being haunted by memories and ghosts, both just as dangerous. Maybe even both leading out here. He almost misses something Dani says to him. It’s so easy not to catch considering the noise, noise, noise. Not a good day to be able to read the unsuspecting minds of those on all sides.

When Dani doesn’t get an answer, she changes the subject. All she asked was if Malcolm was alright after being shot at. The no answer was clear, no. There’s a lot to be said too about the way Malcolm looks ready to hop all over the junkyard, about to leap on and off broken cars.

“A body of a young woman was found,” Dani starts to inform them.

Again, her words become lost. Malcolm shoots her a quick glance before nearly blacking out because of all the noise, noise, noise of surrounding loud sounds. _How did he know? How did he know here?_ _How did he know? How did he know here?_ Answer is: They don’t want to know. 

Gil side eyes him. Chances are Malcolm’s being louder than usual. A lot louder than usual but he tries to focus and he tries to pry his way through all those thoughts, _How did he know? How did he know here?_ Malcolm picks at a few loose threads in his coat pocket. 

Reminder: Fix that later.

Another reminder: Fix memories later. Memories need to be fixed and investigated and sought out to better understand all the reasons to why his father’s car would be here in a junkyard where everybody else is also bouncing around thinking _bodies_ , _bodies_ , _bodies_. But strange. Dani made it sound as if there was only. . .one victim.

Rather than focus on Dani, Malcolm swings around to find Edrissa standing in one spot. If it weren’t murder that brought them all around, it would’ve looked as if she were lifting pizza from a brick oven with some giant spatula. She too is practically bouncing around. Some sort of energy consumes the area, popping around each and every single person increasing all the thoughts of each person standing around the junkyard.

_Bodies_ , _bodies_ , _bodies_. But nobody’s said a thing out loud about this. Just something brewing around them, boiling for too long.

Malcolm tilts his head to the side as he watches Edrisa side step towards another medical examiner, body on her giant pizza spatula. Her head bobbing as if she’s hearing some bop caught in her head. She’s not. Malcolm and Gil know this for a fact. Although in a sing-song way Edrisa is reminding herself again and again: _Careful, be careful, you want to be careful_

“Is that a pizza spatula?” It’s like Malcolm’s joining the land of the living, not a world of shadows shared between him and Gil then a few others.

Edrisa is dumping the remains of a woman found in a car into a bad to be carried back to the lab. She chuckles. “Oh this? No, it’s actually called a pizza peel, derived from the French word for shovel, which is weird since pizza’s Italian.”

Behind them, Dani manages to say in her head rather than out loud: _Yeah, because that’s what’s weird._ Malcolm gives her a look causing her to wonder if she said that out loud.

Holding up the pizza peel for everybody to see, Edrisa smiles. Her jitteriness is a welcome energy, one Malcolm feels he can fall in sync with rather than the tautness of everybody else in the junkyard. She chimes back into the conversation. “These puppies are a little known M.E. secret. Great for retrieving smashed soft tissue or a pepperoni that fell off in the oven.” By the look on everybody’s face, utter shock, Edrisa finishes the though. “Oh! Not-Not with the same one.”

Only Malcolm smiles, a breath of relief. He looks at a crushed car, not the station wagon. Those gunshots from the night before ricochet off the corners of his brain, locked in his memory. They’re loud enough above all the other noise, noise, noise that Gil grimaces a little behind him. Swinging his arms around a bit while keeping his hands in his pocket, Malcolm asks, “What do we know about the victim?”

Gil steps forward so Malcolm can see him from the corner of his eye. It takes a lot more strength to not roll his eyes than to actually roll them at the fact both Malcolm and Edrisa look ready to hop all around the junkyard with a victim at the site of the crime and the abandoned car of a serial killer. Then of course, the ansty tremors of gunshot memory richots. Before Edrisa gets a word in, Gil tells Malcolm, _You should go home, take the day off_.

Yeah, but of course, Malcolm isn’t going to listen. He’s the sort of person you say no to and his response is **yes** as he does whatever it is he shouldn’t do. The kid’s shaved enough years off Gil’s life.

“Oh, not much yet,” Edrisa answers. She’s shuffling around. “Based off of decomposition, I’m guessing she died a couple of weeks ago.” She glances off at the medical examiners with the remains.

_Bodies_ , _bodies_ , _bodies_. 

Gil avoids eye contact with Malcolm. “Is it possible she wound up in the car by accident? Maybe she OD’d?”

Edrisa chuckles, she radiates anxiety. It’s pretty electric. Stacked up on top of all the other anxiety flooding the junkyard. _Bodies_ , _bodies_ , _bodies_. “No, I don’t think so.”

Malcolm tilts his head to the side, sometimes he’s more bird-like than he should be. But he’s looking at smudges along the window of the crushed car. “No, look at those prints, I think the killer locked her in and then turned on the compactor.” For a split second, she’s there. The girl in the car, clawing for life as she’s about to die. The car buckles around her and it’s obvious, she’s not going to make it, but maybe if she tries. . .

“Dani, see if the techs can pull a print,” Gil cuts in. He considers putting a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. A reminder to just _relax_ , but he doesn’t. Instead, it’s business. “And find JT.”

Dani glances at Gil. “He’s running down who might have shot at Bright.”

And as if on cue, JT arrives holding up some paper. “No one, apparently.”

_WHAT?_ Malcolm snaps his attention to JT, he moves too fast. It causes JT to stagger a bit like he’ll be attacked. _Doesn’t make sense!_ Ghosts don’t own junkyards, a fact Malcolm knows.

JT shrugs. “Property records list a guy named Paul Lazar as the junkyard owner but he doesn’t exist. There’s no record of him anywhere.”

_But ghosts cannot own. . ._

An iciness crawls through Malcolm. It starts in his head and inches its way through his veins. No record of him anywhere. Makes no sense. None of this makes sense. He pretends he’s paying attention to the moment and not looking over at his father’s station wagon.

Gil attempts to keep up the conversation, “So why would someone buy a junkyard under a fake name?”

_To kill one woman? Hide The Surgeon’s station wagon?_ Still, Malcolm can’t focus in on any of them. Instead, little black spots form at the corners of his vision, blotting out Edrisa, Dani, JT, and even Gil.

Gil meant the question for everybody but his only response is Malcolm. Without looking at him, like they’re not talking at all, Gil replies, _We have to consider the possibility that your dad’s car has nothing to do with this murder._

“Why?” Dani breaks the silence. “It doesn’t make sense.”

_We have to consider the possibility that your dad’s car has nothing to do with this murder, he’s been chained to a wall for 20 years. That’s a good albi, Malcolm, this has to be a coincidence._

Any movement is too much movement. Malcolm feels too dizzy, he turns, moving at such an erratic pace. This he didn’t mean to say out loud, but he does. “He may not have killed her, but he’s connected somehow. He has to be! It can’t be a coincidence. . .” _My memories brought me here, to a place with is car and a dead body!_ Only Gil hears the last bit of input, but selects to ignore it as best he can.

“What’s he talking about?” JT asks, just plain confusion is on everybody else’s face. It came out of nowhere, Malcolm’s comments. Then again, it’s not like they need a full explanation to know who’s being referenced. “What’s he talking about?

_Bodies_ , _bodies_ , _bodies_. _Bodies_ , _bodies_ , _bodies_. _Bodies_ , _bodies_ , _bodies_. _Bodies_ , _bodies_ , _bodies_. 

A medical examiner walks over to them with a small wave. She looks at Edrisa, “Dr. Tanaka, we found more.”

_Bodies_. 

Ice turns to steel, not good for blood flow. Malcolm realizes the world is all off-kilter. No. Wait. This is new. But the energy and the _Bodies_ , _bodies_ , _bodies_ lingered with him from start to finish of standing in the junkyard but now it’s real, all too real. He tries to grab onto something except nothing is there. It’s not like the noise, noise, noise would help support him.

“More what?” Gil snaps.

The medical examiner looks at the ground. “Victims.”

Gunshots continue to ricochet but something else needles it's away through Malcolm. He’s almost numb to it, a lot of feeling already gone. Before Malcolm realizes it’s too late, the ground is reaching up towards him. A soft voice haunts him. _My Boy! Come on and take your medicine!_ The problem with memories is that they’re like ghosts. They’re always out there to haunt you. Malcolm is no stranger to being haunted by the dead and his memories, but a few know of this fact even as he hits the ground, passing out. 

But there’s no silence even there.


	4. Four: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm meets Gil who introduces a new word to him, The Shining.

# Four

**Past**

Martin Whitly felt as if the moment called for the urgent sounds of _Satyagraha_. Something about it screamed while blaring over the station wagon’s speakers. Jessica sat in the passenger seat, silent. Ainsley slept. Malcolm picked at the lock in an attempt to let it rise and fall to the beat of the opera. Their vehicle slid along sidewinder roads in the mountains heading towards a single destination, a new life.

At some during the ceaseless clanging of instruments, Martin glanced at the rearview mirror to focus on Malcolm who paused, the door was left unlocked as they headed straight on a road. “My son, are you familiar with Rabindranath Tagore here? He was a poet”

Jessica side-eyed him. “Martin, he’s seven. Seven-year-olds don’t read poetry.”

“I’m ten,” Malcolm corrected.

“Close enough.” Jessica looked out her window instead.

“I read _The Raven_. It was for school on Halloween. We even watched _The Simpsons_ because they made fun of it.”

None of this information pertained to Martin. He skipped it to go right into what he wanted to say because it was more important. “He wrote this one poem I want you to remember, he wrote it about his daughter but this one is instead for you, repeat it after me. Foolish boy, my son _who gave you the strength to make such a statement, so bold, so self-assured-- ‘I won’t let you go’? Whom will you, in this universe, with two hands hold back. . ._ ”

“Martin. . .that’s a lot of words. How could anybody repeat them after you?” Jessica interrupted.

“ _Jessica_.” A tightness fastened itself to Martin's vowels. “I’m speaking to Malcolm here, not you.”

Malcolm attempted some sort of smile, it was a pretty crooked little smirk. “I won’t let you go.” The only words he remembered from whatever that all was.

That time Martin glanced back at him despite Jessica screaming for him to watch the road while driving along toward their new life. “I won’t let you go.” 

The music raged. 

“MARTIN!”

“Jessica! We’re fine.”

Of course, Martin returned to paying close attention to the road, it curved revealing a large building that looked cute into a mountainside. One wrong move would send them plunging into the rocks underneath. It looked as if the hotel had two arms using its fingers to crawl forward at them. There wasn’t anything welcoming about it, but still hung out ready to grab onto anybody who happened to close.

“Would you look at that?” Martin pointed it out. Music still pounding over the speakers, singers who made no sense but their words somehow became _I won’t let you go_. Beside him, Jessica groaned. “Wake Ainsley up, Malcolm. Make sure she sees this.” He nudged Jessica who groaned and rolled her eyes. In the back, Malcolm tapped on Ainsley’s shoulder. Everybody looked right on out at the building as Martin said over the music, “The Overlook Hotel.”

**###**

Martin pulled into a loop real close to the hotel. He parked the car and was already out of the car commenting on how he might be late. Jessica looked at the clock before she rolled the window down to yell out, “Martin! You’re early!”

“Early is late,” Martin smiled at her. 

Jessica lost her words. She watched him disappear before looking back at the dashboard. Keys still in the ignition with the music still playing. She kind of smiled, but truth was, this was all wrong. Still sitting in the car, she flicks out a lighter and a cigarette box. Before popping it open, she slapped the volume off.

“Enough of that, right?” Jessica looked back at Ainsley and Malcolm who sat in the back not really reacting to her question. “Right.” She pulled a cigarette out, lighting it.

“Second-hand smoking. . .” Malcolm started to say but Jessica’s door opened causing her to scream. The cigarette fell into her lap, burned her. She yelped, flinging it from herself. Malcolm leaned forward to get a better look at a security guard who knelt on the curb looking at them. A name tag on his uniform just said **Arroyo**. He looked at all of them there but Malcolm ended up speaking up. “Hello.”

“Hello,” said the security guard while hanging out there. “Are you checking in?”

Jessica shook her head ready to start smoking for real this time around. “Unfortunately, no.” She lit it, took a drag, and looked over at the guard. “We’re moving in.”

The man was at such a loss of words, but he made an attempt to find them.

Malcolm continued to lean into the back of his mother’s seat. “We’re the new caretakers.”

“The new caretakers?” He managed to say. He put out a hand to help Jessica from the car before opening the door for Malcolm. “That’s a pretty huge responsibility.” As Malcolm climbed out, he paused giving Malcolm a quick, direct glance with a half-smile. “You all can call me Gil.” After that, he added, _I work security here during the busy seasons_.

Malcolm’s toes clipped the curb and he almost fell face-first into the pavement but Gil caught him. _What?_

“I’m Jessica.” She pointed at Malcolm. “That’s Malcolm and then this here. . .” Her pause wasn’t meant to be dramatic, she needed to reach in and help Ainsley out. Jessica held her cigarette in one hand and hoisted Ainsley up in the other. “And this here is Ainsley.”

Gil smiled at Ainsley. “Well, hello there.” And he made sure Malcolm was standing there fine. _And a hello to you, too._

Malcolm did everything in his power to act like this is normal, this had to be normal, this was normal, nothing about this was strange. _But how?_

Already Jessica was setting Ainsley down while attempting to smoke.

“You know that’s not healthy for the kids,” Gil told her.

Jessica glared. “It’s not even healthy for me.”

“When you say moving in? Do you mean you’re moving into the Overlook or close by?” Gil kept walking with them as they headed toward the big doors. He ends up holding one wide open for them. “I hope not, unusual things tend to happen here.”

Jessica and Ainsley entered first. Malcolm pretended he wasn’t about to initiate a conversation with Gil. _What do you mean by. . .unusual?_

The lobby opened up, the ceiling raised up so high and a single woman argued with the person at the main desk. Whoever worked there looked exhausted. Malcolm acted as if he were observing the argument while Jessica crushed her cigarette into an ashtray. There was no sign of Martin.

 _Maybe I should speak with your parents about it, but. . ._ Gil ended up falling a few steps behind Jessica. She was saying something about the building with Ainsley coming close to wandering away from her. _If you ever need help, you give me a shout._

Malcolm offered no response. He waited for Gil to explain. No sense in asking questions when he can tell by Gil’s expression, he’s ready to add more information.

_It’s called the shining or at least that was how it was first introduced to me._

That time around, Malcolm ended up asking, _What do you mean by the shining?_

Gil pointed at the side of his head, enough of an answer. _See how we’re talking now, just give me a real loud shout and I’ll come running. Give it a try._

Whatever Jessica said next is lost on Malcolm. She looked out the windows at their moving truck as it joined the station wagon in the loop.

_HELP!_

Gil collapsed attracting all attention especially Jessica’s. Her attention though darts straight to Malcolm. “Malcolm! What did you do?!”

“Nothing,” retorted Malcolm, glad Gil is already getting up. He offered him a hand. Gil does not look well. _I didn’t mean. . .”_

_It’s ok, kid._ Gil let go of Malcolm’s hand now that he was standing there. _Just didn’t expect you to shine so bright. Where I’m going, there’s no way I’ll miss that call for help from you._

_Going?_

“Malcolm, watch your sister,” Jessica said without looking at him or Ainsley. Instead, she was already out the door yelling at everybody opening the moving van. 

But Malcolm looked around, Ainsley was gone. “Ains?” he whispered, but he spotted her looking down a regular hallway in the hotel. Her feet remained planted in the lobby. Good. _Where are you going?_

_Back home to New York, but if anything happens, and I mean **anything** , you shout for me. Just like that, maybe even louder._

Gil made his way back toward the door to help Jessica and the movers. This left Malcolm there staring at him. He reached for the door but Malcolm couldn’t let him go just yet. 

_What do you mean by **anything**? What kind of weird things happen here?_

But Gil only smiled. The truth was: Malcolm’s life would’ve been a lot better if he never understood what Gil meant by that anything. It was worse than he could imagine because it was never something he could make up. He waved to Gil yet Gil was already gone, his back to him. 

Malcolm stood alone in the lobby where the angry woman’s voice echoed. Rather than eavesdrop on their conversation, Malcolm decided to chat with Ainsley to make sure she was already. He could hear the hotel worker’s mind buzzing about everything other than what the woman was screaming about. Then the woman kept thinking all about how she needed to get out of there before it snowed because once it snowed, there was no turning back only there. 

“Ains?” Malcolm looked back at where she stood before the hallway except, the spot was empty. The rest of the lobby was empty. “Ainsley?” Malcolm couldn’t move. He felt rooted to the ground, a tremor sprinted through his heart. Nobody else stood around. It was him and the other two. No Martin. No Jessica. No Gil. And most important, no Ainsley. “AINSLEY!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might soon try to just start posting this Tuesday and/or Thursday.
> 
> Please prepare yourself for some ghosts and father-son time for Malcolm + Martin but also Malcolm + Gil.


	5. Five: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, murders have happened before at the Overlook.

# Five

**Past**

Ainsley Whitly didn’t know what a friend is so she didn't know what to say when two girls called out a _hello_ to her. Two girls who looked like mirror images of one another stood down a long, thin hall where red and orange shapes eat each other. Ainsley thought of all the time she looked at her reflection but if she reached out to touch her hand, she’d touch glass when this was different. Mirrors never spoke up, too. These girls did.

“What’s your name?” they asked in unison.

“I’m not supposed to speak to strangers,” replied Ainsley.

Both girls looked at each other before looking back at Ainsley. “Come play with us.”

Ainsley glanced to see Malcolm is still in the lobby with the one man. They stared at each other without exchanging any words so she started down the hallway. The two girls said nothing as they turned around to walk down the hallway, away from Ainsley who didn’t look back anymore. Instead, she just goes forward, following the two girls. 

Before Ainsley could catch up, a door swung open almost hitting her in the face. Martin walked out following a man as they still chatted. The two almost run over Ainsley who doesn’t even notice. Good thing Martin catches her.

“What are you doing over here all alone?” Martin asked her. “Where’s your brother?”

Ainsley pointed down the hall to the girls, but they’re gone by that point. Both Martin and the man he stood with looked with her. Any empty hall full of closed doors and eating shape after shape after shape.

“Go back to your brother, I’m busy right now.” Martin steered her back toward the lobby right when Malcolm darted into the hallway. He tripped up over the rug realizing his father was there. “Malcolm! Where were you?”

“The lobby.” Malcolm looked at Ainsley just glad she was alright. 

“Where’s your mother?” 

“Outside with the moving van.” 

As if on cue, Jessica’s voice rang throughout the lobby while she yelled at somebody.

Martin smiled. “Stay with your mother, I’m going on a tour to learn about the hotel.”

“Can I come?” Malcolm piped up right away. The words happened before he could think about what he was saying.

And yet Martin smiled, there was something tight about the way he spoke. He wanted them both gone. Malcolm took Ainsley by the hand. “I said _stay_ with your mother. There’s a lot of areas not for kids around here.” With that, Martin and the man started down the hallway.

Malcolm led Ainsley away catching some words passing between Martin and the man. _1910\. . .Mafia. . .strange happenings. . .his way to the boiler room._ He stopped before Jessica who smiled at the two.

“I’m going to help dad,” Malcolm told Jessica.

Ainsley looked at him without comment.

“Ok, but that means you don’t get first choice of bed,” replied Jessica.

“Fine with me.” Malcolm nodded before he headed off after Martin and the other man. He hesitated at the start of the hallways, closing his eyes as he listened to all the voices around. Not much. Most of the rooms were empty with people leaving before the snow began because once it did, they’d be stuck there.

_You’ll want to. . ._

Malcolm opened his eyes and smiled. Got them. He took off following the voices of Martin and the man. Curiosity carried him forward toward a heavy door. It took some effort to get it open and descend toward the basement. Something roared down there. Once he reached the shadows, Malcolm realized he made a mistake. It wasn’t even his idea to follow through with sneaking around. He never was that kind of person. Felt almost as if something else compelled him there.

The man speaking to Martin highlighted the importance of checking the furnace because otherwise it’ll blow and if it did, they’d all die, too. Malcolm sank to the ground looking at a few boxes surrounding him. He pulled what looked like a scrapbook. Dust exploded into his face, tickling his nose.

_Maaaaaalcolm,_ somebody whispered.

Before Malcolm opened the scrapbook, he looked around. The voice wasn’t one he recognized. Not his father. Not Gil. He kept it waiting on his lap. The man was too busy explaining to Martin how to make sure they don’t all perish in a fiery death.

_Maaaalcolm!_ It turned into a quick, short whisper snapping through the dark.

Nobody else stood around him.

“While we are down here, there is information I need to include,” the man continued his tour. Malcolm glanced at them without cracking open the scrapbook. He lowered their voice even though the two have no idea they’re not alone. Before the man continued, Malcolm looked to see it wasn’t much of a scrapbook but instead a book of collected newspapers. “There’s been a lot of scandals at the Overlook.”

_Malcom!_

But he couldn’t pry his attention from the page in front of him. It’s one of those tabloid papers without a care for the story. A lurid headline dictates: **Family Annihilator**. Blood was clear even in black and white.

“It gets lonely up here in the winter without anywhere to go. The last caretaker murdered his whole family, took an ax to his daughters and wife. By the time anybody could make it to the Overlook, their bodies were frozen. Winters get real cold up here.”

“Intriguing,” ended up being Martin’s only response.

Malcolm heard their words but failed to look from the newspaper scrap before him. White clothes like Halloween ghosts cover the corpses at the scene even with black sludge all over the walls. Blood smeared across it. The bodies are broken up looking unnaturally long, separate white sheets guard them from view. But the blood stains are clear all on them.

“I’m going to introduce you to somebody who works with plumbing because that’s going to be another one of your problems.” The conversation carried on upstairs beyond the roaring boiler room.

Malcolm stayed seated still trying his best to register every detail of the newspaper in front of himself and the idea of a family _annihilator_. So much death right at the hands of a father or mother or other family members. Here, a father. What caused somebody to do such a thing? He went to turn the page, Martin and the man were on the steps, they creaked under their weight as they reached almost the top.

Before Malcolm could change the page, somebody screamed at him again _MALCOLM!_ He snapped his attention up to see a woman crouching close by, her body all distorted, her feet were on top of two boxes as she leaned across and touching one hand to the floor and one on a box. Her shoulder looked dislocated and her head about to fall off. _Hello. . .Malcolm. . ._ A few teeth plopped right from her mouth, onto the floor with blood spittle running down the side of her mouth.

Malcolm slammed the scrapbook shut partially overhearing one more part of the conversation above.

“About forty-five people have died here since the hotel first opened, back in 1910,” the man continued before he struck the lights off in the boiler.

Pitch blackness stole the sight of the distorted woman, but it also stole any chance of escape. He sat there with the furnace roaring, a dim light fell from equipment but never enough to guide him to safety, it just added more shadows and possible imaginary haunts to the very real danger of ghosts.


	6. Six: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm finds a piece of his past in the present.

# Six

**Present**

Gil and Malcolm stay close to each other as they cut through the station toward the coroner’s office. For a split second, Gil comes lost in explaining the situation to Malcolm. To reassure him that JT and Dani are canvassing the area to better understand what went down at the junkyard at the hands of this so-called Paul Lazar. A nervous energy pops all around Malcolm’s mind, crackling like pop rocks but this doesn’t stop Gil from talking out loud because it feels as if he can almost forget what the main issue is at hand.

In short, Malcolm went out alone ( _again_ ), he found his father’s car in a junkyard, is shot at by apparently no one, a body is found then more bodies are found.

All around people can’t stop their thoughts as a single word winds its way through the entirety of the building: _Bodies_ , _bodies_ , _bodies_. 

A door almost hits Malcolm in the face as he follows Gil into Edrisa’s domain. She’s fluttering around, her thoughts are too bright and fast to make any sense. Her stream of consciousness is some sort of laser light show firing off as she moves all throughout the room with everybody else. Actual stations are set up with the remains of victims showing off different states of decay. Gil almost trips over the surrounding thoughts, _Bodies_ , _bodies_ , _bodies_ , as he spots another cot being rolled up. Cots here aren’t for the living but instead for the. . .

“Are all of these. . .” Gil blurts.

Malcolm is closing the door behind them as he enters the room. He can’t even focus on any one of the victims, but instead, his attention slices straight across the room to Edrisa to hear what needs to be said. Even as she slows to a stop, her thoughts are impossible to piece through or figure out. Still, lasers firing off but she stands there frowning at both of them, no longer fluttering around with sheer panic.

Before Gil can finish what he wants to say, Edrisa answers it for him. “The Junkyard. Each one from a compacted car. Most were killed five to ten years ago, which is why you are also seeing skeletons.” 

Edrisa moves towards the stretcher somebody just rolled up with fresher remains laid on top. The odor of the victim is clear, it serves the room in half, but nobody is going to comment on the fact. It's as if ammonia and feces were warped together to invade their noses. No longer the sour tang of blood permeating. Already Malcolm moves across the room leaving his thoughts right by the door though. His brain is one place as his feet lead him somewhere else still staring at Edrisa. It’s clear he stands in two places at once, Gil can sense it but even out of the corner of his eye he watches a much younger Malcolm left at the door. The boy he met all those years ago outside the Overlook Hotel. That in itself is a problem Gil doesn’t want to admit.

“Some. . .” Edrisa continues whatever she’s about to say, she signals to the victim on the stretcher. “Some more recent like this one.

Both Malcolms speak up, one out loud, and one only Gill can hear. “Have you determined the cause of death?” asks while Young Malcolm asks, _Have you determined the cause of death?_

Edrisa looks up at Malcolm. No smiles. No charm. No awkward humor. “Crush injuries.” She pauses still looking at Malcolm the entire time like he’s the center of the universe in that moment. All death leading towards him. “You were right, she went into the car alive then the compactor killed her.”

Gil starts up a conversation but rather than listen to him Malcolm starts to move in one direction as young Malcolm moves in another. The two are in sync as they move and stop and move again staring at bone shards and lost limbs, skeletons left behind. All strangers without names yet but one thing is known so far. _Crush injuries_ hurt more than the whispering about _bodies_.

“What’s the profile here, Malcolm?” Gil attempts to reel him back into the present. It’s where they all need Malcolm to stay.

Still, Malcolm moves. He’s practically floating through the room looking at the remains of the victims while his younger self moves with him. The two look up all of once making eye contact. Young Malcolm asks him, _Do you really think. . .?_

Gil keeps up trying to keep Malcolm present. “Pleasure seeker, maybe? Some type of thrill killer?” The kid loves a good murder, which is a questionable attribution at best.

Young Malcolm shakes his head as Malcolm smirks. The two look over at Gil speaking up for the first time in after a hot second though it doesn’t feel like it. A space so wide separates the Malcolms from Edrisa and Gil and anybody else who happens to be standing around. There’s nothing in this world to bring Malcolm any closer to any person around him, which is a shame.

“Actually, he may be avoiding the thrill,” Malcolm says while young Malcolm pipes up much closer to a whisper, _Who would do such a thing?_ But at least Malcolm continues as if half of him isn’t hanging around. “The way he disposed of the bodies. Impersonal. Remote. He killed them with a machine. Didn’t have to bury them. Why?”

It’s not really a question meant for anybody to answer. Edrisa and Gil hang onto each of his words understanding such a fact as they wait for a more in-depth answer.

But Young Malcolm isn’t having it. He starts to walk across the room, his fingers coming so close to touching a body. The thought lets fear settle inside his heart, too deep inside his heart where it hurts. _But you’re not listening! You’re not listening to me!_ Rather than try and pay him any mind, Malcolm turns a bit pretending his thoughts aren’t in disarray. What’s important is the present, never the past. Lies. The past and his past is important but he can get to that later because right now, right now, right now. . .

“Maybe it helped him disassociate,” Malcolm continues. He does his best to focus on just Gil, straight across the room with so much death in between them. “I bet he couldn’t actually watch. It’s a coping mechanism. . .”

He comes so close to finishing what he wants to say when Young Malcolm barges back in, speaking up and speaking a little louder and yet is so quiet. _You heard what I said! Who would do such a thing? Not out of shock but because. . ._

And so Malcolm talks a little louder to drown out his intruding thoughts. But did it really count as an intrusion if it was his own thoughts? An answer to search for later. “He had to see them as inanimate objects--in order to kill them.”

_You know._

Still Malcolm stares straight at Gil rather than at any of the _bodies_ , _bodies_ , _bodies_ that surround them. 

“Fascinating!” Edrisa ends up fluttering all over again as she walks a bit looking at the victims. “So that makes him the opposite of someone like The Surgeon, right?” 

_You know. . ._ Young Malcolm stops again distracted by the most recent death, she’s left there but not forgotten. Instead, the center attention without anybody staring right at her.

“The Surgeon seemed to derive pleasure from direct contact with the human body,” Edrisa continues.

Malcolm fires off a look in her direction, startling her a bit. “True!” He didn’t mean to say it so loud, but even then loud for Malcolm is still fairly quiet no matter his age. “But just because this guy had a different M.O. from my father doesn’t mean that Dr. Whitly isn’t somehow involved.”

Young Malcolm looks up again, _You know._

But Gil does what he can to bring this conversation back in, it’s about to be lost and all twisted up with monsters of the past. The past needs to be left there some of the time. _Malcolm, we already talked about this._

Not going to happen. Malcolm and Young Malcolm look at Edrisa. Again, in unison, they both say even though Gil hears both and Edrisa hears a single voice admitting, “Or so I’ve been telling Gil all morning.”

Of course, Edrisa laughs. She even snorts a little as she looks at Gil. “You should listen to him.” Gil glares at her so she corrects herself. “Or _not_ because-because that’s all up to you.” She chuckles attempting to hide her nervousness in the situation. “Sorry, sorry.”

 _We have to ask for more questions,_ continues Young Malcolm.

Gill shoots _him_ a dirty look, too. “You stop it.”

 _We have to ask about the station wagon, something isn’t right,_ responds Young Malcolm.

Actual Malcolm speaks up, he moves across the room, getting closer to where Edrisa stands. Breaking up the distance between him and them as Young Malcolm moves with him. Two places at one time. But truth be told, he could be in three places. Somewhere off in the past another Young Malcolm fights branches that punch him in the face as somebody shouts behind him, _My Boy! Come on and take your medicine!_

“Did the lab find anything in the station wagon that might help connect the dots?” Malcolm asks.

Gil grumbles, _Malcolm! Don’t do this._

But Malcolm retorts, _It can’t be a coincidence._

Young Malcolm glares at Malcolm. _You already know._

Somewhere in a distant past Young Malcolm continues to sprint, fighting back the bushes of a hedge maze right before a lion made of leaves stabs the ground with its feet, branches dig up soil knocking Young Malcolm off-kilter. A topiary creature moving through the night and throughout the hedge maze in front of him as he hears the screaming behind him. _My Boy! Come on and take your medicine!_

Edrisa perks up having no idea the layers of panic unspooling before her. Her hand shoots up as if to signal one. “Yes!” She snatches up a report bringing it to Malcolm. Gil wants to tell her to stop but they all need actual answers. Anyway, it’s too late, she stands close showing some results off to Malcolm. He listens more than reads because there’s too much jumping around in everybody’s minds. “They did a full workup. The blood in the trunk does not match any of the junkyard victims.” Edrisa pauses. Less for drama though. Her thoughts are starting to slow down as she glances up at Malcolm. “Or. . .any of The Surgeon’s victims either.”

Malcolm stands, no words. Out of all the places in the world, he found his father’s station wagon there in a junkyard that served more as a mass burial ground. Not a _graveyard_ , those were meant for buried individuals, and whoever killed them did so in a way where he wouldn’t have to bury each body.

“My ‘yes’ was probably too enthusiastic?” Edrisa ends up saying as if she can read the room better than Malcolm or Gil. _So. . .they didn’t find any connection?_

Young Malcolm looks at the door. It pops open with another stretcher rolling in. Gil sighs. Death floats around them all over again. Adding to the already present mix. One of the medical examiners releases the stretcher right as Gil asks, “Another one?”

She frowns looking at him and nods. “Real fresh, too, it looks as if they were killed in the last week.”

Malcolm doesn’t look at the new victim but Young Malcolm watches, _You know_.

“So what? That makes eight now?” Gil huffs. He glances at the newfound victim before turning his attention back to Malcolm and Young Malcolm who stand so close to one another. “Bright, it’s time we say what we haven’t been saying.”

“We have a new serial killer on our hands,” Malcolm states as does Young Malcolm, _We have a new serial killer on our hands._

This time around Gil scoffs, he’s shaking his head as he avoids looking at Malcolm and all the remains around them. “No, he’s not new. He’s been killing for years. . .” _And on my watch._ Gil heads towards the doors. “This ends now.” 

Gil storms out, leaving Malcolm behind with Young Malcolm inside the same room. Edrisa stays close to Malcolm. Words aren’t passing between any of them, not with words like that echoing through the precinct now. It went from _bodies_ , _bodies_ , _bodies_ to _serial killer_ , _serial killer_ , _serial killer_. It’s already escaped somehow. Flooding the thoughts of every other person around them. 

_Serial killer_ , _serial killer_ , _serial killer_. 

“What an exit?” Edrisa chuckles only to notice Malcolm isn’t having it. She attempts to shrug off her awkwardness and faces Malcolm, he goes to leave but she stops him by saying, “There’s one other thing found.”

“One other thing found?” Malcolm asks not understanding what this is supposed to mean. “What are you talking about?”

“With the station wagon,” continues Edrisa. Malcolm gawks at her. Young Malcolm shakes his head. “During a second pass they did find something that may be of interest since you are so interested in. . .the station wagon.”

“What about it?” Tremors inch through his fingertips and up his arms. Already his heart races. But it needs to stop, to slow back down to normal. “What did you. . .find?”

Edrisa walks off to the side picking up a pocket knife already stuck inside an evidence baggy. Malcolm and Young Malcolm stare at it with _You know_ hanging heavy in the air between them and her. Not that Edrisa would ever know. And of course, she wouldn’t know about actual Young Malcolm running through a hedge maze, branches punching and scraping at him, in an attempt to stop him, lion’s feet crafted of branches puncturing the ground and he only had a pocket knife in hand. Again there’s the shouting, _My Boy! Come on and take your medicine!_ Young Malcolm holds up the knife at the topiary lion, it's already slick with blood, but not from branches attacking him. Blood trickles from such thin wounds but it’s nothing major, nothing at all. Not compared to the blood smeared across his blade, none of which belongs to him which in turn means. . .

“Malcolm?” Edrisa pulls him back in the present. He looks up at her, raising an eyebrow as if to answer a question. She’s still holding up the knife.

From another room, Gil shouts, _MALCOLM! Get in here!_

“Are you ok? Malcolm?”

“No.” Malcolm returns, he looks right at Edrisa rather than a moment in the past. He shakes his head and as if it’s not obvious, he answers her question again. “No.” Young Malcolm stumbles backward looking at the knife before looking down at his palm. “I-I had trouble sleeping last night. Nothing major.”

Edrisa nods and chuckles, “I didn’t know you sleep.” She’s holding up the knife, glances at it because not once does Malcolm avert his eyes. “It seemed important, it was hidden in a crack in the center console.” Malcolm looks as if he’s about to teeter off balance into some other world. “Is it. . .important?”

“There’s only one person who can tell me.” 

Without asking, Malcolm takes it from Edrisa before he slips out of the room, fleeing the scene, knife in hand. Young Malcolm continues to stand before Edrisa staring at his palm. There’s blood trailing up his hand towards his elbow. He moves his fingers across it, but it doesn't budge. Again, Edrisa returns to her fluttering making rounds around the room only for the door to snap open. Its clang startles her, she almost falls into one of the stretchers as she whips around to see Gil standing there.

“Where’s Malcolm?” Gil booms.

“Oh. . .! Um!” Edrisa looks around the room. “I don’t know. He just left.”

Gil looks to Young Malcolm for help, but he’s distracted as he fades from view. Young Malcolm no more. Wherever Malcolm is in the world, he’s just there. Maybe he’s split in two again as in the past and present. But Gil looks out the door unable to find a single trace of where Malcolm went in the world.


	7. Seven: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ainsley wants to interview her father.

# Seven

**Present**

Ainsley Whitly is meant for greatness. This was a fact she alternated through because some days, she believed it then other days she did not. Some days it felt as if her family held her back and other days hery family was her key to success. Maybe it was because her father was a serial killer, sitting around in a fancy cell. One she never questioned because too many other questions were ahead of that one.

Instead, she sits in front of Martin Whitly eyeing his best attempt at holding one ‘friendly’ grin. He looks too wily even with all his gray hair, it fell into sporadic short curls. She leans back in her seat knowing the time is now, the time is now. She’ll need to speak up and speak loud enough for part of the world to hear her out.

“What is it?” Martin asks.

“Nothing.” Ainsley shakes her head and sighs. She continues to eye her father. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“You reviewed the questions I sent you?”

“Of course, I’ve looked forward to speaking with my daughter all week.”

Nobody could ever steal back such a word as daughter. Her father’s genes were hers. But not hers alone because Malcolm, too. “Then let’s get started.”

“Let’s get started.”

Ainsley stares, her face felt about as neutral as it could while she looked at him. Some subtle anger flooded her though thinking of a whole life stolen from her. Her chance at a regular life became a victim of the Overlook Hotel. Most days it felt as if the place ate up all her childhood memories. She offers up a smile like they’re about to have an actual, genuine conversation but of course, Martin continues to grin, grin, grin.

“Billy Franklin, age 23.” She didn’t even make it to the point but Martin keeps his huge grin, grin, grin out in the open but something in him is changing. She can feel it. Maybe they all could feel it. “He aced his LSATs, wanted to become a civil rights lawyer, but you took out his heart to see how long he lived. Because of you, he died a gruesome and agonizing death. But why? That’s my first question, why? Why did you do that?”

Martin sits and stares, his grin flickers about to be lost. 

“I’m sorry, is something wrong?” Ainsley comes close to losing her neutralness. She sort of chuckles while sitting there. “Cat got your tongue? Or wait, does that make you think of Abby Conway, age 30? Why- _Why_ did you remove her tongue?”

Martin’s grin meets its demise. It flickers away from his expression.

_Beautiful_.

“We can talk about something else instead? If you prefer to talk about Megan Wong, age 64?”

Martin’s frowning a whole lot, danger inching towards Ainsley while she sits there trying her best to remain cold, as cold as possible in the situation. She’s on camera. Time to be Artic cold. Don’t let them see or smell the emotions.”

“What about Cory Goldstein, age 10?” 

She really didn’t think Martin would pipe up like that. He cuts into the interview. _I don’t-I don’t know that one_ , but Ainsley won’t let him tell. Instead, she nods to suggest Martin should go on to talk about this murder victim. Much younger than the rest.

“A brutal car accident left him with a surely fatal aortic rupture until he landed in my OR. It’s there were I saved his life.” 

The grin, grin, grin returns. It looks like he’s staring straight through her, but the two barely know each other. Ainsley lost her father at such a young age. There are brief memories she has but none like her mother or Malcolm who are forever haunted. Problem is she has nothing to haunt her but the stories she heard here and there after the lights went out. There are no fears here other than the tall tales her mother told her.

Ainsley let’s Martin talk without further comment.

“You know. . .his. . .his-his parents called me his guardian angel on live TV.”

Ainsley interjects a quick comment. “And then they found out that you were a murderer.”

The grin flickers. “I’m not a perfect man, it’s true. Sadly, the lamentable stigma that still plagues people with mental health diagnoses, I hardly think that this. . .I-I-I. . .I was sick, Ainsley. My brain diseased, that diagnosis is as real as cancer or lupus and yet it’s held against me?”

A knock on the door behind Ainsley jerks her out of the moment, some fear erupts. She looks at the camera before looking over her shoulder hoping to make sure nobody else can see the fear. Malcolm’s knocking on the door. Out of all the people in the world, Malcolm shouldn’t be there but he is. He’s right there, scowling and looking about as sad and angry as ever.  
Figures he wouldn’t give her a chance to do this on her own. She slips right out of her seat and is let out to see her brother. “Malcolm! What are you doing here?! I get to talk to dad, too, you know. I don’t need yours or mom’s help.”

There’s something Malcolm is hanging onto that she can’t quite make out. He’s acting like he can’t look at her by attempting to look through glass on the door. “I need a moment.”

“A moment for what? I’m in the middle of an interview here.”

“There’s a serial killer.” It’s all she hears at first because it’s all she needs to know for a few minutes. Here she is about to interview her father, The Surgeon, and her comes Malcolm with news of another serial killer. And who’s going to know it all first and report it out into the world? Her.

“Yeah, go ahead, but he’s not really answering questions.”

“Right.” Malcolm continues to avoid looking at her and at Martin. 

Doesn’t matter because she’s about to learn a lot. Ainsley Whitly guessed right when she woke up that morning thinking about how she’s meant for greatness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Sorry that this is a mess, I lost inspiration and now I have scarlet fever again which is wild.


	8. Eight: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm learns some unpleasant news.

# Eight

**Present**

Malcolm’s not ready for Ainsley to follow him back into the room, to speak with Martin but the whole time Martin laughs. He claps his hands together, “I can’t believe it, a family reunion.” The whole time Malcolm tries to remain about as indifferent as possible. There’s no way he could’ve ever said no to his sister because if he did, they’d still end up in the same room together.

Ainsley though makes direct contact first with Martin even as he continues to chuckle about their so-called _family reunion_. She informs him, “We’re going to take a quick break so the authorities can ask you a few questions about a murder.”

And Malcolm looks up because it’s time to face the truth or potential truth. “A serial killer, actually,” he interrupts.

Again, Martin chuckles, he leans forward a bit while smiling. “Oh really? Have you named him yet? I always thought The Surgeon was a little too on the nose.” 

Ainsley closes her eyes for a second, seems like a better approach than rolling them as Malcolm just stared at their father. This is going to be a lot. It always is. Somebody could compare it to pulling teeth but there are worse things like somebody using tweezers to pluck out your eyelashes one-by-one or somebody peeling your nails from your fingers. Maybe teeth are still worse than the nails. There’s a certain intimacy to it. Well, that and the eyelashes.

“But. . .it’s not about me,” continues Martin as he sits back resting his hands on his knees.

Only Malcolm catches them all off guard by posing a new question. “It _is_ about you, about your station wagon.”

Somehow this gets Martin to shut up, it even gets all his chuckling to stop. He’s still grinning though. “The camping wagon? Where was it?”

The whole time Malcolm watches him, studies him, waits to better understand whatever Martin might say. This isn’t good. This isn’t ok. There’s the knife weighing him down along with the rest of his questions stuck in his head. 

“It was found in a junkyard in the Bronx.” _Take yourself out of the story_ , he tries to remind himself to stop himself from falling out of time. “It was found where we also found ten dead bodies.”

Still so quiet, Martin sits there. He’s answering questions just fine and all but all the humor is gone or joy of the so-called family reunion. He seems to shrug the comment off. “I’ve never been to the Bronx and as for the murder, well, what can I say?” The laughter returns, such a light chuckle in this round. Unlike before where he was loud maybe there’s a weird nervousness here. It’s hard to tell. Either way, Martin finishes his joke with his punchline. “I’ve been indisposed.”

_Take yourself out of the story_ , Malcolm continues to tell himself but he’s getting closer to detaching and falling through time. The longer he talks to his father with the knife and questions weighing him down. Memories of the “camping wagon” moving its way along a winding road before rocks cleared away for them to get one good view of the Overlook Hotel, a place where the dead walked, despite how they never should.

“We don’t believe you committed the murders, but instead, we believe you may know the person,” Malcolm says while staying in the present.

Martin’s chuckle changes all together. It went from boisterous family reunion to something nervous like all the stories of the dead within the hotel walls. “Cars show up in all sorts of places, Malcolm.”

Except Malcolm isn’t going to take it. He lifts a hand almost smirking about it. “So-So it’s just a coincidence that one serial killer’s car is found in the junkyard of another serial killer.”

All humor or nervousness disappears from Martin, he’s just sitting there. Kind of shrugs his shoulders, closes his eyes for a bit as if he’s attempting calculating some sort of equation. The whole time his hands rest on his knees without him fiddling with his handcuffs. “Let’s see what the odds are then. There are usually between 25 to 50 active serial killers for about. . .”

“STOP!” Malcolm shouts, as if he’s not loud enough he puts a hand up getting Martin to shut up with all his mumbling going on. This isn’t ok. This isn’t alright. _Take yourself out of the story_ , it’s what Gil would tell him especially whenever it came to Martin. He couldn’t though. He couldn’t do such a thing. He was in too deep. “Stop.” This time it’s much softer. Ainsley stares instead at Malcolm as he starts to pace, talking with his hands as he’s moving around. “I know-I know they’re connected.”

Martin sucks in his lower lip, leans back in his seat a bit as Malcolm comes closer pulling out a photograph, it’s a close up image of a pocket knife. Nothing special about it, just steel and wood but Malcolm holds it up so he stays silent letting the kid talk.

“This knife was found in the center console of the station wagon.” _Take yourself out of the story_ , but too late. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember it!”

Martin looks up from the photograph. “Sure, that was your knife.”

There’s something wrong about the way he said it. _Sure, that **was** your knife_ not _Sure, **that’s** your knife_. There was something mocking about it, saying each and every single possible word out loud. _Sure, that was your knife_. Martin even smiles again as he watches Malcolm. The whole time he’s smiling and nodding but Malcolm stands and watches him still stuck, stuck on those words from him unable to bring himself out of the story and he knows he knows he’s about to fall through time.

“Yeah, we got that in the, uh, rest stop just off the turnpike,” Martin continues while Malcolm gawks at him. “I know what you’re thinking: What kind of rest stop would sell a switchblade to a kid? Well, it was New Jersey or Ohio.”

Gradually, Malcolm lets the photograph come down like gravity is moving his arm and not his own brain. He does need to remind himself to breathe, take in a deep breath. _Inhale_. And so he does as he looks down at the photograph he hangs onto. _Inhale_! The knife was found in the console of the station wagon in the junkyard with all those bodies and flashes of memories of another time, and another life.

Martin won’t stop. Of course, he isn’t going to stop. “You were never one to crush a penny. You wanted a practical souvenir.”

_Practical_. Again, Malcolm looks up at Martin not that he really sees his father in the moment. Already, he’s gone, falling out of time. It’s a bad habit. But he manages to get the right words out, he has to choke them out but says them for Martin to hear in the present, “Is that why I wanted it?” Ainsley probably doesn’t notice he’s gone. Yes, he’s physically standing in the same spot and in the same room as them but that doesn’t mean he’s tethered to the actual moment.

Somewhere outside the Overlook Hotel, Young Malcolm sprints through a hedge maze, branches punching and scraping at him, in an attempt to stop him, lion’s feet crafted of branches puncture the ground before him. All he has is a pocket knife to defend himself. _Not practical_ after all, but that’s not what matters. No, not at all.

Behind Young Malcolm, somebody shouts, _My Boy! Come on and take your medicine!_ Young Malcolm holds the knife at the topiary lion, it’s already slick with blood, but not from branches attacking him. Not his blood. It’s somebody else’s blood. Another element, another part to this story that’s. . .faded. . .

_Practical_.

Martin’s still talking, of course, he didn’t notice Malcolm’s exit or maybe he did and waited for the moment he returned. Hard to tell, either way, Martin continues, “Why else would a boy want a knife?” Martin’s squinting at him, he’s careful the way he shapes each of his following words. _Practical_. “To whittle a piece of wood, to scale a fish. . .

Who else was there with them? Malcolm glances from Martin to Ainsley. Two of the three because there was also his mother and Gil had left by then. It was the four of them out there, lost in the snow between the walls of the. . . 

“When we were at the Overlook, what happened there, Dr. Whitly?” Malcolm finds words again returning to his earlier mantra, _Take yourself out of the story_. Although this is his story, it’s about him, it’s about something, it’s about a knife, it’s about lost memories, it’s about a lot of things.

And Martin leans forward whispering to Malcolm all while Ainsley stares the two of them down. “Perhaps we should table this for later because it seems like you’re taking up all your sister’s time.” No response from Malcolm, he stands there staring at Martin unable to choose what to focus on. _Practical_ keeps coming to mind with brief moments of him and that knife and there’s blood on it, not his though. “There’s only so much of dad to go around.”

Unable to answer, Malcolm stands there clenching his jaw. It's locked into place, maybe he’ll never be able to open his mouth again and will casually die because of it. Trying to remind himself not to shake or let his guard down. Not here. Not in front of this person. Not with these words floating through the air. There’s a different reason to why he won’t get any answers. Worse is the knife weighing him down, his _practical_ souvenir because why else would a boy want a knife? Already his headaches and he can feel his teeth crunch in his ears as he clenches too hard but can’t stop. Anxiety starts up again, it’s a steady sizzle inside his chest more like electricity, only it’ll grow and grow.

“Malcolm?” Ainsley speaks up behind him. “Can. . .Can I talk to you for a second?”

It’s all a whisper.

Malcolm releases his jaw and turns to face her. Everything is alright. Everything is going to be alright. There was blood on his knife back after something happened. Another person had to be there. It wasn’t any of the four of them. Not them. Ghosts don’t bleed either, he knows this far a fact. An unfortunate fact for any person to know but most people could guess that right.

“Yeah,” Malcolm whispers real low and looks away even though Ainsley is already heading out.

The door is so loud in the moment of noiselessness. Malcolm struggles to look anywhere but at her or at Martin, which is hard because the room isn’t too big. He turns, clenching his jaw again. It’s going to be a real pain. He follows Ainsley out having no idea what she’ll say but most words aren’t going to make sense. Not with anxiety sizzling inside him, growing louder inside his brain, memories that don’t connect because there’s something missing, a lot of something missing. And yet, somehow deep down between _Sure, that was your knife_ , _Practical souvenir_ , and _Perhaps we should table this for later. . ._ Malcolm knew for sure, he did something horribly bad. One last time, he looks down at the photograph of the knife stuck wondering _What did I do?_ because he’s avoiding the real question poking about his brain, _Who did I hurt?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping to get back to writing again and being super inspired again now that I've pretty much recovered from scarlet fever.


	9. Nine: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the Overlook Hotel.
> 
> Malcolm runs into some danger.

# Nine

**Past**

_About forty-five people have died here since the hotel first opened, back in 1910._

Malcolm opened his eyes again. Trapped in the basement by the boiler that could explode at any moment if his father forgot to take care of it. If any of them forgot. After all, that was what the man told him. Before him, Malcolm could still see the lurid headline sitting in front of him almost as if it were some sort of warning just hopefully for somebody other than him and his family.

**Family Annihilator.**

Couldn’t be a warning for people in the past seeing that they all already died. Malcolm picked it from the floor folding it up to tuck down deep into his own pocket. There’d been a crooked woman crouching before him. Somehow she got down there and somehow she disappeared just like _that_. Poof! Gone in the blink of an eye. Had to be the imagination. Except he could smell her, she smelled of ammonia dripping on the floor there partially lit up by the furnace there. The rest of the world was still dark and he had no idea how to get out of there.

With a **Family Annihilator** tucked into his pocket, Malcolm began to turn where he remembered where the stairs waited. 

Only the second he faced them the woman stood there all over again. Half her skin sloughed off muscles, her dislocated shoulder made her look all crooked as she partially melted into the ground. 

Malcolm stood there all wide-eyed and unable to think straight. He couldn’t think left or right or in any direction at all. The woman grinned but most of her teeth all gone seeing that they fell straight out of her mouth moments ago when they first met. Her gums bled, full of gashes. Her non-dislocated arm shot out, her talon-like fingers clutched at his throat. Malcolm couldn’t back up or anything. He lost his footing and dangled there, toes scraping the ground, fingers digging into his skin. Blood peeked out of fresh puncture wounds, all slick and sticky on his neck.

Imagination didn’t smell. 

Imagination didn’t hurt. 

Whatever this was, it was real and Malcolm searched for words. They clawed up his throat, itching the whole way as if a cockroach crept through him. Malcolm spit them out right at her face. “GO! AWAY!”

The woman croaked out a laugh. Bloody spit splashed out of her mouth. Her grip, gone. And Malcolm struck the ground. Pain sparked up worse in his tailbone than her hitting his throat. He laid there still with **Family Annihilator** living in his pocket. Not even her shadow touched down or reached out to him. Gone. _Gone_. She came and went in a flash. Poof! She was gone again. Just Malcolm laying on the ground, in the dark, in the basement of the Overlook Hotel where the boiler. The place no longer stank of ammonia, but instead, dust, sweat, and forgotten mouse traps.

Lost words waited above Malcolm:

_It gets lonely up here in the winter without anywhere to go. The last caretaker murdered his whole family, took an ax to his daughters and wife. By the time anybody could make it to the Overlook, their bodies were frozen. Winters get real cold up here._

Malcolm snapped up looking around, alone again. The steps were in front of him and he scrambled up those almost on all fours. Feet and hands scraping across such rough wood. Some splinters dug inside his skin, ready to stay. 

At the top, he wriggled the doorknob unable to get out. It was all locked up so instead, he started to smash his fists into the door. More pain popped up. Splinters and bruises. Bruises on his neck. Bruises on his coccyx.

“Help! HELP! HELP!” Malcolm screamed with each pounding of his fist. “HELLO! HELP! Please! Please! PLEASE! HELLO!” He inhaled deeply to take a slight break before starting to yell all over again never letting up with the banging of his fists. “MOTHER! MOTHER! HELLO! HELP!”

The door swung out, good thing it didn’t move into him because it’d knock him right off those steps. A tumble down them might kill a person, a person just like him. Down there only concrete would greet him.

Malcolm paused looking at Jessica while she stood there clinging to a wine glass. She gawked at Malcolm then stood on her toes to look over him. It wasn’t even like he was all that tall for her to do so. Just a kid standing on those steps, in danger. Jessica continued to balance on her toes looking down into the basement before she returned to stare at him.

“MALCOLM!” she gasped, shaking her head. “What-what do you think you’re doing? What made you think you could _just_ run around here?! You don’t know this place! _Malcolm_! It could be dangerous here!” She stabbed the air right by Malcolm's ear, pointing down into the boiler room. “What would make you think it’s safe to go down _there_? I thought I could trust you. . .”

Jessica cupped his shoulder pulling him out of the basement before letting the door snap shut. The second it clicked shut again, locking upon impacting. Jessica took one long gulp of wine while shaking her head and pushing him away from the place altogether.

“Just _please_ , leave your father’s work alone. We don’t know anything about this place yet.”

Not necessarily true. A **Family Annihilator** weighed down more than his pocket but his brain while Jessica steered him through a maze of hallways. The carpet was such a bleeding eyesore of red and orange, so bright and distracting. They walked across it in what felt like loops and up steps, not in large brass elevators. 

Jessica peeled a set of keys from her pocket, they rang as they moved. She unlocked a single door ushering him into an apartment of haphazard items. Ainsley laid on one of three beds, hers was the closest to a window overlooking the craggy rocks that hugged them.

“Too late!” Ainsley said without getting up. “This is my bed now!”

“Yours is the middle bed,” Jessica said as she closed the door behind them and locked it.

“Right. . .” whispered Malcolm. He turned to look at Jessica. “Is there a library?”

“How am I supposed to know that? I just got here, too, Malcolm!” 

Jessica sat on the bed closest to the door. She put her wine glass down on the nightstand before pulling a cigarette pack from the top drawer. Sitting there she lit it and inhaled deeply as she watched Malcolm hang out near the door. He was close to explaining his need for a library. He needed a dictionary and maybe more texts to better understand what it meant to be a **Family Annihilator** even though he heard the story already through and through already.

Once there was a man who looked over the Overlook. His job was to make sure it didn’t go up in flames. He lived there with his family much like the Whitleys. Only loneliness kills and it caused him to grab onto an ax, killing his daughters, his wife, and then himself. It’s amazing they were found before the boiler blew.

“Malcolm!” blurted Jessica. She ended up smudging out her cigarette. Instead of sitting around, she strutted across the room touching a hand to his cheek. “Malcolm! You’re hurt? What happened?” She cupped his face, moving him to look at five bruises along his neck. Four on one side and one by itself on the opposite. “Oh my God! Malcolm! What happened? Who did this?” 

Jessica backed away from him. There was a little kitchen attached to the makeshift apartment, it was larger than any studio or a regular hotel room. She went in there to dig around the freezer. Not once did Ainsley get up from the bed she claimed by the window. Jessica rummaged through the freezer while Malcolm touched his throat. He walked over toward a dresser with a mirror by his mother’s bed.

It was one of those old fashioned mirrors. All frilly along the rim and the glass stained, it gave the world a yellowish tint. Malcolm stood there looking at himself. He glanced at his palms knowing he’d also have to bring up the fact splinters were trapped underneath. It seemed so minuscule to the fact that the woman hurt him down there. Dislocated shoulder. Skin falling off her. Teeth plummeted from her mouth. Her appearing and disappearing. 

When Jessica returned, she had frozen peas in hand and some masking tape that she held up. Probably because she planned to tape it to him, but Malcolm turned away, not able to look any longer at the concrete evidence that a ghost hurt him. Instead, he took the peas from her, went to his bed in the middle of everything, and laid down there.

_Ghost_ was ridiculous. There wasn’t a reason for him to arrive at such a point. He could read. If he could find books to read then he could search for a better answer. An answer beside _ghost_ woman in the boiler room. A much better answer. Except the only other answer than _ghost_ woman was human murderer.

“Malcom?” Jessica stood over him and without a glass of wine in her hand. He laid there sinking into the mattress with the frozen peas resting on his bruises. “How did this happen?”

“I fell.”

“You fell?”

Malcolm nodded. “Yes, down the steps.”

“What were you even doing down there?”

Malcolm shrugged. “I wanted to learn.”

“Learn what?”

“How to help look after the hotel. I wanted to help.”

Jessica touched the side of Malcolm’s face again. “Oh sweetie, I think it might be best for you to stay out of your father’s business.”


	10. Ten: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm does some research and meets a stranger who's apparently staying in Room 217.

# Ten

**Past**

**Familicide** : A type of murder or murder-suicide when an individual kills multiple close family members in a quick succession such as their children, relatives, spouse, siblings, or parents. Typically, the individual takes their own life last. Researchers refer to this criminal behavior as _family annihilator_ because often the individual is attempting to spare their families from indignity or tragedy whether this is real or imagined. 

Additional research does its best to investigate the internal logic for family annihilation although it appears this act can stem from a number of sources.

To list a few:

  * The individual sees their family as a status symbol, and when their economic status collapses, they start to view their family as surplus to requirements. This then results in the individual to enact familicide since their family no longer lives up to _their_ ideals on family life.
  * A self-righteous individual chooses to kill their family to exact revenge upon either the mother or father. All the blame is put on who the individual deems is at fault.
  * A paranoid individual kills their family in a way or an attempt to protect them from something even worse



Malcolm sat in the library or what he believed to be the Overlook’s library. It was a room with a bunch of dusty books. So dusty he choked on the air at first. Apparently, guests of the hotel preferred not to read. 

After a few tries he found a chunky book about some psychology, maybe. In a gift shop downstairs, he dug up a notebook about visiting Colorado. Each page had a fun fact printed in the corner and more important, it had lines along each page, in which he started to jot down those words before finishing it off: _Why did Delbert Grady kill his whole family?_

The newspaper from the basement was cut up and taped down into that notebook covering up Colorado Fun Fact #1, which wasn’t even about the state. Instead, it just stated a fact about the Overlook Hotel. _Fun Fact #1: The Overlook Hotel is a 142 roomed colonial-revival hotel._ Somehow the place felt like it was the center of everything.

Muttering to himself, Malcolm looked between the newspaper and the text. “So what was it Mr. Delbert Grady? Were you a paranoid killer or a self-righteous individual? I don’t think you saw your family as a status symbol because you worked here as a caretaker. . .” He made actual notes on paper because mental notes were easily forgotten.

_Why did Delbert Grady kill his whole family?_

“Malcolm?”

Hearing his name startled him so much, he fell out of his seat still clinging to the pencil. Malcolm turned around to see Ainsley entering the room. She’s hanging onto a bright green bouncy ball, which she does a bad job at passing toward Malcolm. It’s too small and bouncy. The little thing rockets off the walls and some books and knocks over a little green-shaded lamp at a desk. The thing shatters upon impact.

“I’m sorry!” yelped Ainsley.

“It’s ok,” replied Malcolm. All they’d need was a broom and a trash can so that neither parent would ever find out. He fished the bouncy ball out from the shards of glass bringing it back to Ainsley. “Where did you get that?”

“Dad says we can’t go back to the room. Just so you know.”

Malcolm was stuck with the ball in his palm looking at her. “Oh? Why?”

“Killing wasps.” Ainsley looked over her shoulder as if those critters were flying around out in that hallway there. None were though. When she looked back at Malcolm, she flailed her hands around a bit as if they added to the story. “They’re outside my window so dad is going to kill them all.”

“ _Our_ window.”

Ainsley shook her head while humming out a nah-uh. She poked a finger into her chest. “MY window!”

“Why’s he killing wasps if they’re outside? What’s the point? They can’t hurt you.”

“I’m scared of wasps.”

Malcolm leaned back a bit taking that in. “Wait, what? Since when were you afraid of wasps? You’ve never even been stung by one?”

“I don’t know. They’re scary. I mean, have you ever seen one before?!” Ainsley groaned and rolled her eyes before pointing outside the library room. “Are you coming or what?”

“Depends, to do what?” Malcolm still held onto his pencil, a reminder that he had a lot of research to do, which was more interesting than hanging out with his little sister.

“We’re playing catch.” Ainsley took the bouncy ball from Malcolm. “Are you coming or what?”

Already Malcolm backed up into the room. “No thanks, I have research to do.”

“Ugh, boring!” And Ainsley was off in the hallway.

Malcolm took a seat in front of the book unsure what entry to look up next to better form an understanding of this Delbert Grady. He flipped back to its index about to start with the A’s like a regular researcher when some odd note struck a chord. He snapped his attention at the door like Ainsley still hung around. Since she wasn’t he needed to get up shouting for her, “Wait, Ainsley! What do you mean by _we’re_ playing catch? Who’re with?”

No answer.

It was ridiculous. Of course Ainsley was playing with their mother.

But wait, no.

Jessica Whitley wasn’t the type to hand out bouncy balls then play catch with them. In fact, the only game he could ever recall playing with Jessica was the quiet game to see who could stay the quietest the longest. In hindsight, she used it to mind her own business.

“AINSLEY!” Malcolm shouted unsure if there were any guests left in the hotel. He was pretty sure their purpose was to stay when nobody else did. It snowed a lot up there. Got real lonely. A fatal loneliness according to the newspaper article suggested Delbrert Grady annihilated his family because he simply got lonely. But so far, Malcolm’s research said otherwise. 

Outside there wasn’t any sign of her but he could hear Ainsley giggling somewhere ahead of him. Good place to start. Malcolm chased after those giggles hoping some stranger lurked alongside his sister. He should’ve looked up other definitions in the book. Other types of murderers that lurked on the page and in reality. Maybe he should’ve asked more about his ability to be more aware than the rest of the world. If he squeezed his eyes shut, maybe he could pick up on Ainsley’s thoughts or whoever she played with.

Nothing.

“AINS. . .” Her name was stolen right when he called after her. 

Malcolm tumbled forward spotting a slightly ajar door. Each and every single door opened into the hallway. This door reached out toward him, just a tad bit. They’re all supposed to be closed to the rest of the world. All the doors were supposed to be closed and the hotel was supposed to be empty. The only people inside were supposed to be him, Ainsley, and their parents. Yet up ahead he heard Ainsley as she probably disappeared around a corner giggling and shouting, _Wait for me, Alexa!_

There wasn’t a single Alexa Malcolm knew.

Before heading after her, he came closer to that slightly ajar door. Malcolm took note of it: Room 217. Alright then. He’d report the issue to his father later. The hinges on the door were probably broken letting the door open up on its own. Still, he approached with caution. His feet scraped along that hideous carpet. It sounded so dry as he moved. Worse than nails on a chalkboard. He stood up on his toes to stretch his hand out to see it shut.

Except the door had a mind of its own. Right as his fingers made contact, he went to push it shut when instead the door burst open and knocked him off his feet. His butt sparked with pain when he struck the ground. That tailbone. Pain, lots of pain. But it’ll pass. Everything passed. All pain went away after a time, right?

Looking up Malcolm saw a man come out of the room. He looked about as regular as any human man could look. He hesitated looking down before saying, “Oh sorry about that Malcolm.” 

Even though he put a hand out to help Malcolm up, Malcolm refused. Instead, Malcolm concentrated as hard as possible on the man’s head to dig into those thoughts. Except the man’s brain was. . .noiseless. 

“Oh, sorry. Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine, I’m fine.” Malcolm took his hand and raised to his feet. “Who are you?”

“A friend of your father’s who. . .hold on a second.” The man went back into Room 217. At least, he wasn’t gone for too long. When the man came out, he handed a note to Malcolm. The front of it casually said Martin. “Do you mind giving that to your father?”

Malcolm still looked at the note rather than study the man’s face. “Sure.” But when he did look up again, he asked, “I’m sorry, but who are you again?”

“Apologies, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m still just a stranger and you know, children shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

Well, that got Malcolm to take a step back from him. He squinted at the man hoping to really dig into his thoughts only for noiselessness to greet him. 

“John Watkins, a friend of your father.” The man paused inhaling deeply. “Told me I could stay here if. . .I helped with this place.” Malcolm added no comment while he watched this John Watkins unable to remember a time he heard his name. For a person who could hear the spoken and unspoken, it seemed weird he had no idea who this stranger was standing in front of him. “It’s a very spooky place, right?”

“Hotels are just weird when they are empty. It isn’t right,” whispered Malcolm. He held up the note. “I’ll give this to my dad. Have. . .a nice day.” 

Rather than wait around for small talk, Malcolm took off down the hall. He didn’t quite run but power walked. Several turns helped separate him from Room 217 and the man’s silent brain. Malcolm tried his best to open up the envelope. It ripped too much so he needed to toss that half of it. But he looked at the letter unsure about reading it, but he did. Privacy was one thing for most people. It was different for him because he could hear passing throughs from people around him. Not from John Watkins though. The entire time he stood before the man there wasn’t a sound from his brain. Not a single murmur or passing thought while the two stood together.

The note was a single sentence:

_Meet me at the bar downstairs after dinner._

“Malcolm.”

It was the second time in a single day that his own name startled him. He whirled around clutching the note, the paper scrunched up in his hand. But just Martin stood in the hallway. He was coming toward him. His thoughts buzzing loud with the buzzing of the wasps he battled outside Ainsley’s window.

“You’re hurt,” commented Malcolm.

“Just a wasp sting. Good thing I’m not allergic.” Martin stopped in front of him blowing on his little sting wound. “What do you have there?”

Oh no, his notebook was still in the library with all those pages open to death. Malcolm reached out handing the note. “This is for you.”

Martin took it and somehow his thoughts made less sense. They became just a flash of red. “So you met Mr. Watkins.”

“I did.”

_Be careful._ Martin smiled and ruffled Malcolm’s hair. “I’ll see you later.”

Malcolm turned to watch Martin leave him standing there in the hallway. No further explanation to the flash of red that clung to them. Brighter than the geometric carpet underneath their feet. Something that caused his heart to beat a little faster with the _Be careful_ igniting some other distant, distant panic. Such a weird thing to say about a friend. There was no way his father would let somebody dangerous live beside them, right? Right.


	11. Eleven: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Ghost Wasps!!**

# Eleven

**Past**

It didn’t seem like a problem at first.

More like a distant memory or a singular annoyance hanging onto the last shard of dream life. Yet somehow whatever it was, it woke Malcolm up. He couldn’t quite see, it’d never been this dark back home in his own bedroom. His eyes needed to adjust to the darkness. Maybe it really was more the quiet than the wisp of some sound. Also back home, the world either screamed or shouted, those were the two volumes the city contained.

Malcolm sat up unable to remember how to get to the bathroom. Instead, he stayed on his bed sitting on his feet and watched how his family was deep in sleep. Somewhere in the room, a white noise machine was set to a whisper shout level.

More and more the room made sense, still it was too dark but he could spot a path between boxes and suitcases meaning he could make it to the bathroom if he really wanted. Malcolm looked at a digital clock, it’s big red numbers claiming it was 11:11.

Malcolm set one foot on the chilled carpet. The heat wasn’t on enough. Somehow he thought it’d already be tomorrow. Instead, the time changed as it should to 11:12. 

It still wasn’t tomorrow. 

He’d prefer to go back rather than ahead. Back to New York. Not Colorado. Not this hotel. Maybe once the sun came up he could spot a few birds if he went outside to explore there rather than through old records.

For a moment, Malcolm stood still before he approached the front door taking one step at a time not sure what parts might squeak, squawk, or scream. But other than the white noise machine, there wasn’t a peep from the Overlook Hotel. By the time he reached the bathroom door, it was closed and without a light on. He’d spot it from underneath the door. Even though everybody else slept and he saw them there, Malcolm lightly knocked.

Just in case.

Nobody said: _Just a minute_. He reached for the doorknob but the second he touched it, a buzzing sound happened, it sounded like spittle, something bit no stung and stung him. He yelped plummeting backward. As a light went on, Malcolm watched a wriggling wasp hit the ground. Its brassy little legs struggled to get a leg up in this world, but not anymore.

Already his mother was there hanging onto him, looking at his hand. “Malcolm! What are you doing!” 

Not _are you ok_ or _what happened_ but what was he doing. Wasn’t it obvious, he was going to the bathroom. 

Only Malcolm stared at the now-dead wasp, its body crumpled up falling in on itself. Jessica looked ready to say something else while she cupped his injured hand. Even though the wasp appeared to be dead already, she crushed it with her flipper. 

Whatever words of comfort she had for Malcolm were stolen by Ainsley who screeched while swatting at more than one wasp chased after her. Even though it was a pointless attack, Ainsley scraped her nails through the air trying to rip those wasps apart.

It was a losing battle.

Martin moved fast and to her rescue while Jessica continued to cup Malcolm’s hurt hand. His hand didn’t swell up, there was a little welt there with a pinprick through it. The two knelt there watching Martin swing a fire extinguisher into action spraying its foam at Ainsley and the wasps. She curled into the floor, sobbing. Her hair soaked with the stuff and no more wasps flying all around her.

Ainsley’s hands started to swell. More so than Malcolm’s. She peeked over her hands and Martin touched the side of her face. “Looks like one got your nose.” 

Then he helped her onto her bed looking all around before shooting a look at Jessica. Not a single one of those wasp bodies were crumpled on the floor. 

“There’s. . .nothing here.” While standing there, Martin picked through the foam with his toes not finding any sign of a wasp. None hidden and none out in the open.

While staying by Malcolm, Jessica stood up lifting her foot to see there wasn’t a wasp underneath anymore. Rather than consider what this could all mean, she glared at Martin. “Did you leave a window open?”

Since it wasn’t really directed at one person, Martin, Malcolm, and Ainsley all shook their heads.

At least Martin moved toward the window. Without moonlight it was hard to see. “I thought I destroyed the nest back there.” He looked over his shoulder at Jessica. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow. It’s too dark out there.” His thoughts were a lot louder than usual. Martin was a guarded person. Malcolm watched him stand around there listening even though he was left alone to massage his wasp stung hand. _Impossible, doesn’t make sense, none of it. How. . .?!_ Martin leaned into the window looking out there as if he could spot whatever was hidden in the gutter or wherever he found the wasp nest.

Malcolm could still hear it. Except it wasn’t in the present but the past, Martin’s past. Him out there on the roof trying his best to stay balanced. The wasp nest looked like soggy paper mache, squashed together and hung onto the gutter. It vibrated with such a fury as he sprayed poison straight into it watching as it trembled less and less.

_I killed them, know I did, saw it happened, there’s no way I’d not kill them._ Martin shook his head. He had kicked the nest off with one or two wasps stung him. Nothing he worried about. He rubbed the back of his hand on his clothes leaving. Those wasps were dead. They had to be dead. _Why aren’t they dead?_

“Martin! What do we do?! How do we take care of bee stings?” blurted Jessica. She stood there without Malcolm leaving him to attend to his own hand.

Martin walked over to Malcolm. “Don’t worry, they’ll be fine.” He put his hand out behind him for Ainsley to follow. “Let’s go downstairs, see what we can find in that big kitchen down there.” 

When Malcolm stood up, Martin took a closer look at his hand. _Good, good. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. Maybe Jessica. . .no, I’m pretty sure it’s his first bee sting. Jessica won’t remember._ Ainsley took Martin’s hand while Malcolm waited in the same spot. Jessica moved away toward their own kitchen. She’d probably drink wine. Except Martin’s thoughts remained louder, still unusual especially in comparison to Jessica. _Ains, Ains, how many times was she even stung?_ Martin smiled at her. _Ains, Ainsley, allergic. . ._

“Ains is allergic to bees?” Malcolm in no way meant to blur that. The words flew right out of his mouth. “I mean, what’s wrong with Ainsley?”

Poor Ainsley panicked looking back and forth between everybody there. Jessica poked her head out from the kitchen looking aghast. “MALCOLM! What. . .What are you talking about? Nobody even said anything about allergies!” She looked at Ainsley. “Are you allergic to bees?”

Malcolm couldn’t summon a reasonable lie as an explanation. He stood there deciding to hold his hand closer to himself as if he were in more pain than usual. Martin made no comment. Instead, he ushered the two children out of the room to head downstairs. Malcolm wanted to close his eyes, he tried hard then he could maybe split from his father’s thoughts.

Maybe, counting would help. They entered the hallway looking down at those strange shapes there. _One. Two. Three._ If he looked up, the hallway would seem never ending. Neither him nor Ainsley whimpered or complained as they headed toward those humongous elevators. _Four. Five. Six. . ._

They hadn’t even reached the elevator when the doors opened. The man Malcolm met earlier stepped out and paused. All three of them paused as well. They locked eyes. Mr. Watkins was what Malcolm remembered him saying, but wasn’t ready to connect him to a name.

_Didn’t expect that_ , Mr. Watkins somewhat smiled at them. “I missed you tonight, I heard some screaming and got a little worried.”

_Shoot, I forgot about him._ “No problem,” replied Martin, he clenched his jaw. “We had a bad bee problem in the room.”

_Why’s he-Why’s he lying?_ “I thought bees couldn’t fly without sunlight.” _There has to be a reason why. . .why’s he lying?_

As far as Malcolm knew, Martin couldn’t read minds but it seemed as if he did right then and there. Without using words to better explain, he moved Ainsley forward putting her hand out for the man to see. He got one good look before looking up at Martin.

“Looks bad,” was all he said.

“It is,” whispered Ainsley.

The man held onto her hand looking up at her. “We should go take care of this then, shouldn’t we?”

Ainsley nodded. She walked a bit faster and looked as if she were about to take the man’s hand but some reason Malcolm found himself shouting all over again, “AINS!” And she looked back at him. 

Malcolm instead put his hand out, it felt as if he were going to claw his way through paranoia bouncing off the two men. “I wanted you to walk with me.” Of course, she laughed and backed up to stand by his side instead. Malcolm took her hand looking at how it swelled, but didn’t look as if it would take her life. “You're brave.”

The man held the elevator doors open looking at them as they entered, _She’ll have to be._

Because Malcolm couldn’t seem to hold his tongue, he asked, “Because of the murders?”

Even though the elevator doors closed, nobody hit a button. 

Not until Ainsley did. 

It lit up and gears started to scrape against one another. The system worked enough to carry them to the first floor. Both Martin and his friend looked at Malcolm and Ainsley. Their thoughts grew too loud. It became a ruckus, a cacophony of nothing he could hone into and one that made his brain want to implode. Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut trying to shove it out of his brain. All those thoughts.

The most he could make out: _How? How did he? How? Could he? Is there. . .?_

“In the hotel,” Malcolm finished for them. “There were murders here.”

Martin smiled while his friend scowled at Malcolm. There was a loud, _Good_ from Martin and nothing from the man. He became an absence of sound while scowling at Malcolm there. The doors slid open. The elevator creaked a whole lot. It didn’t even touch down onto the main floor forcing them to make a bit of a step off the elevator. Martin helped Ainsley and Malcolm into the lobby.

“Who are you?” Ainsley asked, walking closer to him again. Nobody was there in the lobby. Of course, it was empty. The hotel was closed. It’d be wrong if anybody was around. “I’m Ainsley and this is Malcolm.” 

“Nice to meet you, Miss Whitly.”

“No, it’s _Ains_ ley.”

“Of course, of course. I apologize.”

“And you are?”

“A friend of your father. Call me John.”

“Ok, John.” 

Ainsley looked ready to ask more questions because she would but Malcolm rested a hand on her shoulder to stop her. She looked at him and he smiled. It was as if they weren’t attacked by a swarm of wasps in the night. Malcolm looked at her hand and the swelling was already going down. And he looked at his own hand. Worse, it was actually as if their wasp swarm never happened.

The four entered what appeared to be a large bar or lounge area. The ceiling rose up high above them, it was plated in copper. Along the one wall, there was a bar with lit up shelves behind it. There were tables with candles lit on each of them. All sorts of alcohol sat on the shelf. As they walked past the bar toward the back, John took a bottle off a shelf before they entered the huge kitchen.

Malcolm glanced at John who held it up. “For adults only, but I imagine we could find a root beer or two for you kids. That seems more up your alley.” And Malcolm continued to stare at him even though Martin lifted Ainsley onto the counter. He uncapped a whisky bottle moving toward another section while keeping an eye on Malcolm the whole time. _No, no, no, he knows-he knows something._

Good thing Malcolm didn’t say, “I don’t,” out loud because that’d be bad. Instead, he and the man continued to watch one another without a comment or two. Martin spoke. Maybe Ainsley, too, except their words faded to nothing around him. Out of the corner of Malcolm’s eye, he spotted something or somebody moving. 

And then there were five. Malcolm didn’t want to look, didn’t want to look, didn’t want to look, but he looked. His friend stood there, imaginary and not a threat. Tommy. Malcolm tried not to react. He was already weird enough on such a weird night. 

Tommy only said, _I told you, you won’t be safe in Colorado._ What else had he said before they left? People die all the time in the mountains. 

Malcolm looked away finding Martin directly in front of him, he smiled at Malcolm without making much of a fuss. There wasn’t anything to fuss over. His hand was better already. A comment or two was made and that comment or two was already gone. 

_I told you, you won’t be safe in Colorado._

Malcolm looked, but Tommy was gone. Back to four.


	12. Twelve: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm goes to explore a hedge maze that turns out to be a bit weirder than he hoped.

# Twelve

**Past**

There are better things to consider than murder. 

No, wait, that came out wrong.

Malcolm stopped as if he were speaking to somebody and looked around. Nobody’s around. It snowed at some point between yesterday and today, not a lot. What little snow that did fall soaked up sound all around him. He stood between hedges in a maze that looped out behind the Overlook. Before heading out, Malcolm searched for a birding book to carry with him. Martin found him digging around the makeshift library and asked him what was up.

Malcolm said: _Going outside._

To which, Martin reasonably asked: _Where?_

Already armed with a bird-watching book, Malcolm faced him as if he needed to really think about it. There wasn’t anywhere else to go but to the right at the Overlook or to the left. So he decided on a reasonable answer for a reasonable question: _The hedge maze._

For some reason, this made Martin chuckle as he came close to exiting without a farewell. His father didn’t say goodbye or anything but instead: _Careful, every labyrinth has its own minotaur._

Malcolm armed then armed himself with the following:

  * Birding book
  * Pencil 
  * Notebook
  * Pocket Knife



His pocket knife seemed reasonable. It didn’t quite fit right into his pocket but it was good enough for the time being because there wasn’t something right about this place. On his way out, Ainsley played in the lobby asking if he wanted to play with her friends. With a quick look, the area was pretty empty, which meant it’d be awkward if he attempted to play a game with her and her imaginary friends.

And that’s how he ended up crunching through the snow. It was colder than he thought and already needed a heavier coat. A thin sheet of ice-encrusted the snow. The ice kept breaking with each step he took. There didn’t appear to be any birds out and by the time he wanted to turn back which was about fifteen minutes into his walk, Malcolm turned around realizing he had no idea how to get back to the Overlook. Instead, it loomed over him, watching him while he was stuck on the ground unable to see past any of the hedges.

At least he left murder behind, but for what? Dying because of the elements. Malcolm put a hand out wishing he brought gloves with him. Jessica would be so disappointed. She always warned him to not leave without a scarf because the wind would chill him and kill him, something along those lines.

Malcolm stared at the hotel before looking at the hedges only, he could’ve sworn he came there on a straight path but an actual hedge waited directly in front of him. Forcing him either forward away from the hotel or to the left. 

Left he went in hopes of making his way back there. At the corner, Malcolm used his pocket knife to cut some branches off. The moment though his knife sliced into bark the hedge seemed to screamed. Instead, a crow flung up from the hedges, startling him. 

The knife slipped biting into his palm. Malcolm stood there looking at a strand of crimson blooming on his hand. He didn’t bring any first aid and even if he brought first aid, he didn’t know how to use it. The only simple thought he had to the situation was to stop the bleeding but with what?

Martin failed to mention where he went earlier. All he said was, _Careful, every labyrinth has its own minotaur_ , before leaving the makeshift library. When Malcolm woke up, his mother had been sitting in the kitchen smoking a cigarette by an open window. He walked into the kitchen and she quickly killed her smoke and tossed it out the window and smiled asking if he wanted something to eat. That she could find something for him to eat. She found nothing. They’d need to head to the supermarket for food if they were to pull through but Martin insisted it wasn’t necessary. Such a large kitchen meant there had to be food supplies somewhere. 

Another crow disturbed branches knocking snow off and into Malcolm. He curled his fingers into his palm with the hope that’d help out. Except his hand kept bleeding and bleeding, staining the snow. He kept his fingers curled up as he touched his palm to his pants. Jessica was about to be angry to find stains on his pants. If he could find hydrogen peroxide before she spotted him, he could dig the stain off his jeans.

Malcolm pushed forward, moving faster. Only more birds flew up. About fifty of them struggled to break out of the hedges and darted into the clouds. Gone in a second or two. More feathers fell than snowflakes. A few tickled Malcolm’s nose while he stood there attempting to press his wound to his pants.

Pushing forward the snow crunch, crunch, crunched under his feet. He started to move even faster turning every now and then whenever it appeared he’d get closer to the hotel. Only the hotel never came closer or so it appeared. Had to be all in his head. Had to be an illusion. Buildings didn’t move and trees didn’t either unless there was a good gust of wind. Then it’d be just the leaves and branches.

Somewhere behind him something snapped and popped. Malcolm stood still while looking down. His whole hand was soaked in blood by that point. But whatever moved behind him, continued to move. It wasn’t birds anymore. Feathers no longer fell and snow couldn’t soak up such a sound. Without moving much, Malcolm only turned his head to look over his shoulder while his muscles remained taut. 

Branches moved, scraping up the ice-crusted snow. He didn’t move as he looked up and up at the moving branches. They were all twisted together and bound up creating what almost looked like a large deer walking through the maze.

_Careful, every labyrinth has its own minotaur._


	13. Thirteen: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward.

# Thirteen

**Past**

Malcolm felt stuck, more rooted to the ground then the tree, all wrapped up before him. Its antlers were humongous, closer to ones of a moose than a regular deer. Something about the creature reminded Malcolm of such a distant memory of megafauna animals, **Irish elk**. The tree creature stood much higher than each of the hedges and maybe the Overlook, as well. Malcolm couldn’t even fight a single hedge. This- _this_ was something else all together.

The ground grumbled underneath the topiary Irish elk’s feet. Snow crumbled underneath. The Irish elk turned to start walking away from him. Headed down another path in the hedge maze. Malcolm slowly turned his attention away from it. He stayed still not sure what to do. What did one do against a topiary creature?

The Irish elk would never be out of sight. It was too tall. Malcolm inhaled deeply and trudged forward again. He walked fast, at first. Except hedges split behind him as the Irish elks feet impaled the ground, which could’ve been him. Instead, Malcolm sprinted. He ran as fast as he could. Its feet got caught in the ground, digging down too deep into the ground to get him. 

Malcolm sprinted forward and dove through one of the hedges. Sticks scraped his face. Each one cutting into his cheeks and almost striking his eyes. Malcolm ducked down, he broke on through to the other side. No more hedges waited. He scrambled back to his feet. Face and hand bleeding, a lot of blood. Malcolm leaned back onto the ground trying his best to catch his breath. He looked over his shoulder again to see no sign of the topiary Irish elk.

The hedges of the maze were several feet away from him. Not a single footprint tore through the snow and he’d made a lot throughout his time out there. He stood up realizing the bird book was gone along with his notebook. His hand was covered in so much blood.

A car door popped behind him and Malcolm looked over there. Between a few trees waited the family’s station wagon. A little strange because the last he remembered was the car being parked in front of the Overlook Hotel. The trunk was open to the station wagon along with the passenger side door. Nobody seemed to move by it. While cradling his bleeding hand, he made his way across the small stretch of land. Both doors hung out, wide-open except he tripped over some of his own panic. A trail of blood dotted the snow right behind the station wagon. Such a thin line making its way toward the hotel. And it wasn’t like he was the one bleeding all over the place here.

“What are you doing?”

It wasn’t even his father. Malcolm spun around to find John standing there, his father’s friend. He was picking at a towel only to stop, sizing Malcolm up. His own blood added to the mix.

“What happened to you?” John moved closer to him using the towel to soak up some of the blood. “You ok?”

Malcolm only nodded not wanting to find any words. His throat ached from all the anxiety and this wasn’t even a person he knew. Now they stood out there in the woods with one another. Nobody helped him earlier. Nobody’d help him now.

“We should get you some stitches.”

“Yes.” Malcolm nodded.

“What were you doing out here anyway?”

“Looking for birds.” The towel was drinking up much of his blood.

_Is this man bothering you?_ Malcolm snapped his attention to find Gil coming toward them. He wore a pretty heavy coat with his hand tucked away in his pockets. “What’s going on here? What’s your name?”

“What’s it to you?” retorted John. “And please, call me Paul.”

_I’m fine._ Malcolm smiled but he looked down at Gil’s feet.

Gil pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “I work security here. Just wondering what’s happening.”

_It’s my fault._

_That’s not comforting._ Gil kept an eye on John the entire time.

_I cut myself by accident with my knife, I tried to cut one of the hedges._ Malcolm looked back at the hedge maze but it was barely in sight. He stood there continuing to cling the towel to his injured palm. “Everything’s ok.” Malcolm almost forgot to say something out loud. 

_Don’t hurt the trees here. They’re bad luck._

“Why are you still here?” John asked. “Just wondering because the guests have left and we no longer need security.”

“Forgot some of my things.” Gil took a few steps away from the two. “Here, let me bring the kid inside and you can do whatever it was that you were doing.” Gil paused for a whole minute. “Sorry, but what were you doing out here?”

“Martin said he forgot something out in the car.” John moved toward the car and Malcolm stayed put in between the two. “Said I’d grab it while he worked with the boiler. Save him a trip.”

Gil continued to stand still. He watched Malcolm there. “Alright then, let’s go.” And Malcolm followed him toward the hotel. When Malcolm looked back, John was climbing into the passenger seat probably grabbing whatever it was he needed. Sort of referencing the hedge maze as they walked, Gil muttered, “I’d recommend not going out there. It’s too dangerous.”

“How?” Malcolm looked back at the hedge maze. 

“Complicated.”

_Adults always say that about everything, complicated._ Malcolm glanced up at Gil who offered up a slight smile.

_We might need to take you to a doctor._

_Are there. . .monsters out there?_ But Malcolm wasn’t too sure if monster was the right word. There wasn’t anything comforting though about how Gil warned him about the trees. When he looked back again at the station wagon, John stood by the back going to close it. He looked at something, snapped the door shut and the two locked eyes.

Even though there was a whole lot of space between the two, words crept through the air. Like the wind somehow caught and threw around his thoughts. _Knows. . .too. . .much._ There was hoping Gil heard, too. The two looked back at the car. John leaned into it, picking at his nails with a pocket knife of his own. They were headed inside still but a shriek broke the two up. It shook Malcolm up so much, after each and everything from earlier, he almost lost his towel. It was pretty filled up with his blood. Jessica was outside taking a drag on a cigarette when they walked up. There was Malcolm all scraped up with his hand drowning in blood.

“MALCOLM!”

“He’s fine, he’s fine,” Gil tried to start saying as Jessica looked at all his mini wounds. “You shouldn’t let the kids play around any of the trees.”

Jessica glared at Gil. “Are you telling me how to parent my children?”

“No, I meant, for the future. Just let them know not that you did something wrong.”

“Ok, um, ok, thank you then. . .” Jessica glared at him and Malcolm continued walking inside. “I’m sorry, but can I help you?”

“No, no, I just forgot some of my things here. I’ll be in and out.” Gil paused. “Unless you need any help?”

Jessica shook her head. “No, my husband is a doctor. We’ll be fine.”

She followed Malcolm inside while Gil stood on the steps. The two looked back at him. Gil sort of waved and sort of smiled at them, but he kept quiet while still letting Malcolm know, _Remember, if you experience any danger give me a shout._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll jump to the present hopefully next.


	14. Fourteen: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm has a weird memory about the woman from Room 217 because he gets a call about a new case.

# Fourteen

**Present**

Martin’s screaming again. There’s a fury, such anger, he’s not ok but it's been awhile since any one of the Whitlys have been ok. Something unhinges behind Malcolm, he notices it a second later. His TV cracks open. A spider web of them goes straight across Martin’s face and his anger remains but his voice is gone again.

Problem is, his voice remains: _Sure, that was your knife_.

Malcolm looks over his shoulder glaring at his mother who is busy rolling her eyes. “My television!”

Jessica isn’t ready to take any of it though. “I thought we agreed not to watch this interview.”

“You agreed not to watch the interview,” replies Malcolm and he looks back at his broken TV. “What are you trying to do? Destroy Ainsley’s rating one television at a time.”

But Jessica doesn’t say anything.

He looks back at her again. “You certainly have enough shoes.”

“I don’t want to talk about this, what I want to talk about is how it is Christmas, it is a time for joy and not a time for. . . _this_. . .” Jessica signals to the broken television screen. She clutches her purse. “But if you’re busy, I will leave you alone then but don’t forget _Christmas_ is tomorrow and that means. . .”

“Christmas dinner,” Malcolm says in unison with her.

“So you haven’t forgotten after all.” Jessica manages a smile, but it’s never comforting to see her smile. It’s not genuine. It’s not happy. She’s full of stress and trying her best to be put together. “I will see you tomorrow then.”

And Jessica leaves Malcolm alone with his broken television and Sunshine reminding him, it’s time to dinner although the thought of food is a weird stressor. He leans back looking at the broken screen. _You were never one to crush a penny. You wanted a practical souvenir._ If he wanted food, he’d have to clean the dishes. The dishes were clean just full of dust and dust is sloughed-off skin cells, microscopic bits of plastic, dead bugs, dust mite feces, bacteria, and more. The strength to cook and know sickness will soon follow feels counterproductive not to mention the aching joints of his jaw. 

Instead, Malcolm climbs back to his feet to offer Sunshine some dinner. He smiles at his bird making his way toward the kitchen to grab a meal. He slices up an orange bringing a slice over. With it in the palm of his hand, he waits letting Sunshine to jump onto his hand and peck at food. Some sort of anxiety sinks deeper into his stomach even though Sunshine continues to casually hang out and eat there. The bird looks up at him. Animals are strange, humans try to imagine different emotions for their facial features. It’s as if Sunshine smiles at him, but Sunshine can’t smile. Sunshine doesn’t even have lips. But still, there’s a different knife hanging out on the counter and Sunshine will want another slice.

No matter how long Martin’s been locked up.

His voice carries a good echo: _Sure, that was your knife. You were never one to crush a penny. You wanted a practical souvenir._ There’s a lot wrong in the world and this is at the top. A knife. His father’s station wagon. The Overlook Hotel. Whatever happened there. The station wagon or “the camping wagon” creeping up hills only to find the Overlook glaring right down at them in their approach. Gil being there. Gil speaking to him through what? The Shining? Him running through a labyrinth of hedges knowing he probably hurt somebody. He probably hurt somebody. Chances are he probably hurt somebody. . .like his father.

Room 217 with its door that somehow always hung ajar, no matter how many times anybody tried to close it. Some odd friend or man who worked at the hotel said he stayed there. Except for any of the times Malcolm moved past. Once he pushed Ainsley forward on a little tricycle. Not quite a real one, it’s more of the big wheel sort. The one you use to learn to ride a tricycle before you ride a tricycle to learn how to ride a bicycle.

That day Malcolm had been pushing her along and along and along while she recounted stories of two girls she knew, which seemed weird. It was only ever them at the Overlook Hotel. Well, them, Gil, and the other man who probably worked there while staying in Room 217 with the door somewhat open. They almost made it straight past the door except the door seemed to flutter. Malcolm lost his hold on Ainsley. She continued forward.

Malcolm called after her, _I’ll. . .be right back._

Ainsley never looked at him. Instead, she giggled and rolled a little faster. She pedaled faster and shouted a little, _I’m free!_

Even as Malcolm went to close the door for the man who stayed there, it didn’t budge. Those hinges stayed quiet with his hand on it. He peered on the other side thinking the man would be there smiling at him with some sort of message to carry along to Martin. Nobody stood there. And the hinges creaked, Malcolm lost his hold.

Still, Ainsley continued to giggle. She shouted somewhere down the hallway, _Alexie! Alexa! Look!_

Malcolm peered into the room, it’s so empty. No luggage waits inside and a thick coat of dust covered the whole place. It looked worse than other rooms in the place. But they’d all seen the man. He stayed there partially in the doorway. Waiting, waiting, waiting, but for what? His word of the month returned to his mind: **Family Annihilator**

_Al. . .Alex. . .ALEXA! ALEXIE! LOOK!_

Somebody hummed some sad lost sort of song. One Malcolm could only ever match to a title later in his life. Past and present, he knew those words. The song was popular like that. Malcolm couldn’t remember the name, not then and not in the present as he felt himself moving before realizing, he in fact entered the room without anybody’s permission.

Whoever hummed, continued. _I’ll be seeing you in all the familiar places._ They were in the bathroom and even though Malcolm wanted his feet to stop, his feet sure didn’t stop. Instead, his feet scraped, scraped the ground making his way toward the bathroom and the humming almost joining in himself. Ainsley’s annoyance permeated throughout the hallway at her the imaginary twins she called ‘friend.’ _That this heart of mine embraces all day and through, in that small cafe, the park across the way, the children’s carousel. . ._

_MALCOLM!_

Malcolm shakes his head realizing, his phone is ringing and he is sitting in his kitchen. Sunshine looks pleased by the remains of two whole oranges, it’s just the peels that are left. Daylight is back and it’s a car outside that’s singing to him. Before answering the phone, he gets up looking out. The car is at a stoplight and the one listening to the song, _I’ll Be Seeing You_ by Billie Holiday. 

Not the woman from Room 217.

The light is about to change and all the cars hove with such anticipation to get their move on. _I’ll be seeing you in every lovely summer’s day._ Malcolm picks up his phone not needing to look and see who it is. Gil’s louder than his ringtone. He answers it. There’s another case and Gil’s gonna apologize for calling him into the situation on Christmas.

“You ok?” Gil ends up asking first.

“I’m fine.” 

Malcolm looks outside again as the car carries the odd sort of memory away from him. _I’ll see you in the morning sun and when the night is new.._ Somehow he fell out of time again without noticing the fact. It’s happening again and it’s getting worse. A lot of time has separated him from such a past and now it's creeping back, right back into his life. Whatever was left of a half cooked up memory is long gone yet it was as if the car’s music warned him.

_I’ll be looking at the moon but I’ll be seeing you._

“I’ll be there soon,” Malcolm replies and hangs up. 

A new case is an opportune escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a mess and it took a while. A really intense bout of depression took me and I dunno if it'll still distract me. 
> 
> Hope not! I felt inspiration again mainly because I saw Prodigal Son is leaving Hulu (which adds to my sadness).


	15. Fifteen: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil Waits for Malcolm to arrive to the scene of a crime.

# Fifteen

**Present**

Gil waits in the lobby of a hotel. It’s nothing like the Overlook and of course nothing like Colorado with being inside the beating heart of New York City. There’s lots of kids chasing one another around, giggling while adults mill about. Some appear to move closer and closer as if they can smell the fact Gil is there for one reason and one reason only, there’s been a murder.

Everybody loves a good hotel murder story. Something about it, the public loves it.

Malcolm enters with his strange little saunter. Not quite something Gil could ever put a label on. Saunter or amble would best describe the way Malcolm walked and smiled on his way toward a murder scene as if it’s the happiest day of his whole dang life. It’s like his phone call to Malcolm was an actual Christmas present.

For the sake of possible onlookers, Gil comments out loud, “Sorry to have to ask you here on Christmas.”

_No worries, I was in the neighborhood caroling_ , Malcolm replies like the peculiar person he is, using throughs instead of actual out loud words. Gil shakes his head. Of course. To which Malcolm responds, _What? What’s wrong?_

“You and you’re. . .” Gil pauses to signal to all of Malcolm before he starts to walk away leading to the precise crime scene.

_Why did you just point to all of me?_ Malcolm catches up, still moving with his saunter/amble.

“It’s just we’ve been over this before about how it’s weird to use the. . .shining. . .in public.”

But Malcolm grins at this. _It’s only strange if you make it strange by responding out loud to my thoughts._ Of course, as he talks, he punctuates all his words with his hands.

_Hey, I started this conversation._

_Alright, you win._ Malcolm shrugs it off but abides by the current rules set. “No sign of ESU or CSU?”

“They’re already upstairs.” Gil and Malcolm are walking together. _We’re keeping this quiet._

Some reason this causes Malcolm to snort and Gil gives him a look, doesn’t quite seem like a typical reaction by him. When Gil tries to get a closer look, Malcolm’s look not at him but around at the people milling about in the hotel. There’s more than just people trying to get a peek at what’s happening. To be honest, they really aren’t. It’s easy to feel like the center of attention when you don’t wanna be. People are minding their own Christmas business and yet there’s Malcolm turning to give him a look that he still can’t define.

Then Malcolm comments on it, shuffling along towards the elevators. _Oh yeah? Secrets doesn’t seem to be your strong suit._

If thoughts could simply be _?!_ , it’s what passes through Gil’s head. Not a _what_ or any other word in search of a better explanation. 

Simply: _?!?!?_

To which Malcolm smiles but it’s impossible to tell what sort of smile this is supposed to be, but at least he keeps on the conversation even with Gil moving closer to him looking for answers with his _?!?_ thoughts.

_My mother dropped by last night._ This is accentuated with a look from Malcolm as he continues to talk without talking out loud with his hands.

Gil sighs, shaking his head and ends up stopping to face Bright. He sighs, it’s almost more of a huff but some reason he finds himself saying out loud, “She was gonna find out soon enough. Better it came from one of us.” Nothing good can come from any of them digging around the past and Malcolm’s infinite obsession with finding the woman he found in Room 217.

Except for whatever reason, it doesn’t look like Malcolm wants to accept this. He looks at Gil’s feet then his. People of course are still milling about. Even though they’ve somewhat left the lobby, there’s plenty of seats set up and a Christmas tree in the background reminding every single person that it’s Christmas, it’s Christmas, you can’t escape the holidays. There’s never anybody around the Overlook at this time of year. 

Even though Gil wants to get a better read on Malcolm, he can’t. There’s nothing hopping through his mind then again at some point way back when Malcolm got real good at hiding his thoughts and emotions from him. Somewhere they hide from sight, maybe with all the ghosts, he locks up in his thoughts.

Rather than keep on keeping on with the same conversation, Malcolm returns but with a different mindset. _Are there any updates in the Paul Lazar case? Anything I need to know about?_

Somehow Gil snatches up the images of a pocket knife. Not much of one. It’s a split second of it inside an evidence bag then again inside the station wagon and then last. . .at the Overlook? Gil shakes his head, more in response to the question just posed rather than the quick flashes he catches from Malcolm. _I don’t have any answers._ Again with the sighing, he doesn’t mean to but continues talking. _Neither does the FBI. Their task force is moving into the precinct._

This pulls some energy back into Malcolm. He’s chatting again too much with his hands. It has to be weird but maybe it’s a good fact that he’s an oddity already. _Oh, they’ll want to question me._

Gil comes so close to chuckling, it’s not even funny. He holds it back but the very thought manages to linger between him and Malcolm. _They very much do not want to question you._ The two are still standing in one place looking at each other. 

Malcolm makes it stranger by needing to use his hands to talk without talking like a regular person. It’s like they’re having a staring contest right then and there before the Christmas tree. As if it’ll help make the situation less weird because again, it feels as if people are coming closer to see what’s going on with police presence in the hotel and on Christmas. “We should start moving along again.”

Doesn’t look like Malcolm is ready to move. He’s bouncing back and forth on his toes and heel watching Gil waiting for more info. The jitters are starting. 

_The special agent in charge is Colette. . ._

Malcolm closes his eyes shaking his head, going somewhere else again for a split second. Something Gil can barely catch. Flash of colors spark up. Burnt orange. DC gray. 

_Swanson?_ he asks with a long sigh. 

This isn’t going to be good. Gil waits a beat as Malcolm opens his eyes again shaking his head. For whatever reason, he ends up saying the rest out loud. Maybe to prevent Gil or anybody from grasping more at whatever those colors may mean. 

“We worked together in DC.” Malcolm digs his hands much deeper into his pockets, weighing himself down. Can’t be comfortable. And he adds, “She hates me.”

For real this time, Gil chuckles and nods. “Oh, yeah, said to keep you out of her way.”

“That's all she said?” Malcolm blurts.

There it is again. Burnt orange. DC gray. Gil ends up trying to casually say, “There were other words, but why ruin your holidays?” 

Everybody deserves a handful of secrets and whatever happened between the two of them. Well, Gil hopes it remains a secret he doesn’t uncover. There are always things he’d rather not know about a person’s personal life. He takes a few steps back, ready to break them from the point in the somewhat hotel lobby. 

Gil nods. “Come on, I got something that’ll cheer you up.”

Gil’s already moving and it’s a good thing he looks back because Malcolm continues to stand in the same spot. The flashes of color are all gone. He’s returned to monochrome. A place where he goes to hide those thoughts of his. Gil doesn’t hesitate to allow for him to follow. He will. And of course, Malcolm does. He shakes his head and starts to move after Gil again to cut through the busyness of the hotel to observe the details of a grisly murder.

It doesn’t take long to make it upstairs and they’re moving down a long hallway. Neither of them exchange words the rest of the way. 

JT is waiting at the end of the hallway outside the hotel room where they’re heading. His arms hanging at his side and he’s watching them approach. Gil’s walking normal as he does and Malcolm’s back to his saunter/amble.

“Merry Christmas!” Malcolm calls out to JT before they get too close. 

Except JT is stuck in the same position staring at him. Earlier Gil was stuck without words and so is JT as he stares at Malcolm not really able to form any reasonable thought around Malcolm’s holiday cheers at a murder scene. He’s standing there all _!!!!_ but he raises a hand like he’s going to say something but still nothing other than _!!!!_. 

Malcolm and Gil come closer and Malcolm’s smile is fading fast as he attempts to read the situation. “Happy Hanukkah?”

Dani’s there as well watching the scene but staying off to the side.

Malcolm’s still looking quizzical not understanding people and yet somehow understands them best in such unexpected ways. JT shakes his head still feeling _!!!_ , but informs them, “Hallway’s secure. Hotel’s keeping things under wraps and I should be home eating my wife’s kringle right now.”

Yet Malcolm stares at him, his head tilted to the side a little. JT gives them some sort of look with his ongoing _!!!!_ thoughts and Gil considers saying something about it all. Maybe let Bright know something. As JT walks away Malcolm follows getting really close to JT.

At least, before entering the hotel room JT offers up more than _!!!_ by explaining, “It’s. . .a pastry.” Then he moves on. Conversation is over and his _!!!_ are over. Gil and Malcolm start to follow him into the room.

But before Gil can make sure Malcolm makes it inside, Dani stops Malcolm from coming inside. Gil sort of glances back at bright. Monochrome’s gone. Malcolm pauses looking at Dani, her hands are out a bit making sure he’s stopped as she says a pretty quiet “Hey” and is about to follow it up with some question that Gil decides isn’t for him for some reason. Again there’s the flash of burnt orange but it’s accompanied by a cold New York blue then a warmer shade of blue. Gil enters the room leaving the two to whatever quick words they’re about to exchange before getting down to business and discussing the situation at hand.


	16. Sixteen: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm starts to investigate a murder, the start of Silent Night.

# Sixteen

**Present**

“Hey. . .Did you watch your sister’s interview last night?” 

Dani both reaches out while pulling back to ask the question. Reaching out as if to comfort a person, but that’s strange and wrong. She pulls back because again, strange, wrong, and they’re in the workplace. Either way, she fidgets with her own hands waiting for Malcolm to respond.

Emotional triggers really do work in mysterious ways. 

There are the obvious suspects and any mention of the Whitlys is at the top of them for Malcolm. But it’s been only a few minutes since arrival that he’s felt so many ups and downs, ups and downs, ups and downs, and now it’s back at down, heading further down. Malcolm attempts to banish thoughts of his mom breaking his TV screen, not wanting to bring it up because somebody like Dani might point out at how little the rich care about the loss of objects.

Dani’s waiting for an answer, but. . .

Malcolm’s back at the Overlook Hotel, the ground full of snow and somehow police officers out front. Each cop car made its way to the building with chains on their tires and their hands hanging out on weapons. Martin being walked off with the help of Gil though Gil has seen much better days than in that final moment.

Even after such a long pause of such silence, Malcolm walks forward remaining in the present rather than falling out of time again. He turns as he enters the room letting Dani know, “U-Uh, my TV’s on the fritz, so. . .” 

Some indistinguishable words follow up his response. It’s hard to make them out as he attempts to remind himself again and again. _Don’t fall out of time. Don’t fall out of time. Don’t fall out of time._ Dani follows him at least into the hotel room without little comment on the obvious pure awkwardness. Before Martin left the Overlook, even with blood on all their hands he tried to make sure, he tried so hard to make sure that. . .

The past is the past.

Malcolm faces the hotel room because facing the hotel room also means facing Gil. As emotional triggers are hidden all throughout the day, every single day of the week, every single day of the year, there are also ways to tackle them, combat them, defend yourself against them. _Don’t fall out of time._

Gil gets it. He doesn’t smile or acknowledge this, just nods to him.

“Wh-Why are we keeping. . .this under wraps?” Malcolm announces, once again clinging to the present.

As if the two never commune with just their thoughts, Gil replies for Malcolm and everybody to hear. Reeling them all into the present and away from whatever might knock them right on out of the hotel room. Haunted memories. Christmas pastries. Whatever else it may be. 

“The victim is high profile,” Gil pauses. He’s in the middle of the room looking at a single person slumped over on the couch. There’s blood splatter and numbers put out defining all the important features of a crime scene. “This one’s close to home.”

JT and Dani take a stance, already in the know. JT focuses on Gil as Dani looks off either away from Malcolm or at those photographing the scene. It wouldn’t take much to know what her thoughts are yet Malcolm moves straight past her and this thought of his. It has to be the fact they’re inside a hotel that’s digging into him. There’s anxiety all balled up in his stomach, more like a porcupine there. One wrong move around the room, he’d strike a sore spot, hurting himself, distracting himself.

**This one’s close to home** is such a loaded statement. It could mean. . .it could mean a lot. There’s lots of things that hit too close to home. Hotel murder. Martin. Malcolm does his best to float across the room avoiding the one wrong move with anxiety bristles moving closer and closer to his heart, to his lungs, already still stuck in his thoughts. 

Even with Gil looking at the scene, he’s looking at the victim on the couch as Malcolm stalls by a bed looking at a woman who is lying there, her shoes are still on. Stilettos. She’s wearing a short black dress. It’s too cold out. He moves past her thought, not taking in any more observations then what he can notice at a glance. It’s not time for a Sherlock scan. 

Instead, he walks to the couch looking at the victim there. Once the couch had been all white, but it’s stained all crimson. Funny how red is a color to match the holidays. He’s wearing a suit, his tie even looks alright, firearm in hand.

**This one’s close to home**.

**High profile**.

Even with anxiety full-on ready to spring out, Malcolm jerks forward using a black nitrile glove to push back the side of the victim’s blazer considering Gil’s words deeply: **This one’s close to home**. A police badge waits, right out on the side of the victim’s belt. Ok, ok, ok. Malcolm stares at it not wanting to move too fast again like before. Instead, he straightens his back without looking up. Ok, ok, ok.

Looking down, Malcolm comments on the now obvious, “He’s a cop.” Ok, ok, ok. . .there is something about cop killers that hurts people. Not a regular murder, but here though? Here though, with a quick sweep, more amateur than Sherlock, something’s not right, something’s not adding up, something is off. But what? What could it be? What is it?

“Ian Turner, chief of detectives,” Gil continues. “Room’s under his name.” 

And Malcolm looks over to Gil, hosting some bad posture as he continues to somewhat lean forward. There’s memories passing up, all throughout the room between Gil, JT, and Dani. Moments, snapshots, it’s almost as if there’s a collage of faded polaroid pictures right in front of Malcolm, all of them of Ian Turner, chief of detectives, **this one’s close to home**.

“You knew him?” Malcolm says to Gil but really to everybody because for two reasons it’s obvious, but everybody mainly knows the one obvious reason. Chief of detectives. Not the collection of snapshots he’s collecting without wanting to collect them.

Dani offers up an answer. “He was a three-star. Everybody did.” Everybody but JT and those photographing the scene look to Dani. She looks back and forth between Gil and Malcolm then offers up more information. “Turner worked his way up the ranks. 42 years of service.”

Not a single snapshot defines who Ian Turner was though. They’re moments in passing, a person who’s fleeting.

JT speaks up, “His record, so squeaky clean that he got into a few fights with dirty cops on the way up. Some people got no patience for doing things by the book.”

Snapshots upon snapshots. It’s getting too loud in the room.

Dani looks annoyed but only because she thinks about some of those who don't like doing things by the book. Although Malcolm finds a snapshot of himself, from them both meeting at the start. It’s like he’s trapped in some past as a polaroid, as well. As people continue to photograph the scene, they click, click, click away at their own memories and thoughts of the day.

Malcolm closes his eyes letting the dizziness pass. It’s weighing his brain down, forget them, block them, prevent it, and the snapshots are gone leaving him alone with-leaving him alone with the victim on the bed. Those sheets once white are stained crimson as well, it happens with violence. Blood splattered across them. She wears a series of gold bracelets on both her arms.

“Mm, this is no ‘by the book’ exit,” Malcolm seems to mutter to himself but he means it for the world to hear and looks up at Gil, Dani, and JT. Rather than keep on keeping on about the first victim, he moves closer to the bed. The victim there, her one foot is hanging off the edge of the bed. “Who’s the woman?”

Dani ends up moving a little closer, tilting her head to the side, somewhat looking at the woman on the bed and Malcolm. “Emily Hayes, 26. She had a misdemeanor for sex work.” Dani points at her with each of her fingers. And goes, “We’re thinking murder.” Her hand turns to point at Ian Turner. “Suicide.”

Hotels. They’re full of such bad stories. It’s incredible that more aren’t haunted. Then again, they all are. Even where they stand there are ghosts shimmering in corners and hallways, keeping right out of sight without an interest in harming a person. Malcolm shakes his head. A weight has been lifted as he fights to block people’s thoughts from reaching him and also fights staying in the present.

There once was a woman who stayed at the Overlook Hotel with her seven children. She stayed there until the day they died, which happened on the same day. The articles about her and them were deep down inside the bowels of the hotel. Malcolm pieced through them choking on dust trying to get a grasp on history. . .

Malcolm continues to stare at the woman on the bed, Emma. . .no, Emily Hayes, 26, a sex worker, and something isn’t right.

“I’m not seeing that,” Malcolm finds a response.

There’s no telling how much time he waited to speak between Dani saying something and slipping out of the main timeline for a second. And yet for no reason at all. Emotional triggers, they work in mysterious ways. 

“I’m-I’m not seeing that.” 

Malcolm leans so far forward his nose almost touches the bed, close to her fingers, he’s looking at her arms, she’s lying out there and. . . something isn’t right.

_Bright. . ._ even though Gil doesn’t speak out loud, his voice stays at a whisper.

Malcolm peers back up at them. “No defensive wounds.” 

The thought is getting louder, louder than any of them, and all their snapshots. **Something isn’t right.**

“And why would Chief Squeaky-Clean wear his badge to meet with a sex worker?” 

Malcolm fires a quick glance off at Ian Turner before focusing on Gil and only Gil as if it’s just him and Gil in the room. 

With Gil staying silent, in his thoughts and out loud, Malcolm continues, “I take it Turner had no history of abuse or violence. Why now?”

Dani sighs, distracting Malcolm. It’s not just him and Gil, but JT and her are standing there. He makes eye contact with her. “Turner obviously had a secret.” It’s annoyance that paints her letters as she pulls them together, her arms are folded as JT stands there in a similar way but pursues his lips taking in the scene. “He was seeing a sex worker.” 

Rather than keeping her arms all crossed, Dani uses her one hand as she keeps on speaking. It’s less annoyance, but instead, the casual desire to just go home, she wants to be home but also she’s just there offering up the rest of her hypothesis to the scene. 

“Maybe Emily threatened to turn him in. He shoots her, takes his own life out of guilt.”

Something’s not right. Malcolm almost snorts as if some joke was just said. At least Gill cuts in warning him off such a reaction with one curt _Bright_. 

Malcolm just smiles and moves over toward Ian Turner as somebody else is working on the scene and blurts, “Are you finish with the murder weapon?” 

_Bright. . ._

The firearm is handed right off to Malcolm and Gil is so close to saying something, so close to saying something out loud that is as he watches this exchange. Malcolm is already there holding the gun and is ready to start with his rambling.

“The suicide you’re describing is the result of deep shame,” Malcolm starts with his come back.

He’s wearing a glove but might as well not be with the way he’s talking with both his hands. He’s somewhat swinging the gun around as he stands between both victims, he points the gun down towards the bed as he points at Ian Turner. 

“Turner killed a woman in cold blood. . .” Still, he’s chatting away with the gun like it’s not murder on the conversation but whatever they watched game they watched last night. “. . .and violated everything he ever stood for.”

_Briiiight. . ._ Gil makes another attempt coming real close to just closing his eyes to not watch Malcolm return to his saunter/amble in the middle of an active crime scene.

Malcolm points the weapon at the bed still as he continues, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “He should have looked at her there on the bed, adrenaline fading, guilt building. . .”

Malcolm stares down at her, Emily, she’s on the blood splattered bed and he stares down the barrel of the gun. The word _guilt_ still hangs around as he watches her. There’s nothing left of her for the world of the building, no faint memory of what happened to scrape up. Nothing to leap back into her final moment but there’s just guilt hanging out and around her. 

“Must have felt this growing weight on his chest.”

Even though Malcolm’s hanging onto the gun, he uses it to touch his chest thinking of the guilt, the heavy guilt weighing the moment down. He daps himself with the murder weapon about three times while JT and Dani hold back any comments.

Gil, not so much, he adds another, _Bright_ , like that’ll stop him.

Malcolm’s hanging too tight to the idea of guilt though. It’s somewhere there, maybe it’s just him. Something he thought about. Something he did. Martin told him that they are so much alike and. . .no, not that. He hugs the gun to his chest still trying to think, think through this moment. Ok. Something isn’t right. 

“Like a burden, he couldn’t lift. This was his only escape. . .” Malcolm points the gun up, caught in a past that isn’t even the past. It’s not him and it’s not like there are ghosts left behind letting him relieve a moment of whatever happened there. “. . .Suicide. . .”

I think we’ve had enough of this, _Bright_ , Gil makes another attempt. _Put the gun down._

But Malcolm lets Gil’s thoughts bounce off himself and onto the floor as he turns around admitting for real out loud, “But something’s not quite right.” 

_JT groans and shakes his head, “Looks that way.”_

This also bounces off. It’s just Malcolm, only Malcolm, it’s him that’s not right but it’s not him they’re talking about or him they’re not supposed to be talking about. Instead, there is something else that isn’t right, something isn’t right. Malcolm’s holding tight to the gun as if it’ll fade from sight leaving behind whatever they can scrounge up. 

“He wouldn’t have been looking at the victim. . .” Malcolm’s so close to Ian Turner again, his fingers embracing his gun, but maybe not his gun. A murder weapon, yes. But who’s, right? Malcolm makes eye contact with Ian, not that Ian returns this eye contact. The dead don’t see. The dead don’t talk, sometimes they do, but not here and not now. Guilt, guilt’s a powerful thing and if it were, if it were guilt then that means. . .that would mean. . . “He would turn away out of shame. . .” 

Malcolm continues to stare right at Ian not noticing but knowing the gun faces him. He points the weapon at himself, not guilt, something other than guilt. It was only ever Malcolm’s guilt permeating at the scene. Malcolm cocks the weapon like he’ll pull the trigger on himself as he watches Ian. 

_MALCOLM!_ Gil shouts at the same time Dani says “HEY!” 

Out loud, Gil panics pointing at Malcolm. “Bright! Put the gun down, now!” 

Malcolm sighs, he rolls his eyes before turning around looking at the three. “It’s not. . .” He looks at the weapon in his hand only to chuckle about it. “Wait, it is.” Gotta get rid of this, gotta put it down. He hums some sort of nonsense while going. “Oooooooh. . .sorry. . .” Yet he’s the only one laughing about it. Gil’s so mad, he can see it and feel it. Like it was an honest mistake. Somebody lunges across the room taking the murder weapon from Malcolm as he continues to hum his Ooooooooooh losing it. 

And Gil glares at him, huffing. “Do you have any idea how stupid that was?” 

As if it’s not because let’s be real, yeah stupid but more important. Malcolm goes on, “Turner didn’t kill himself, there was a third person. Both victims were dressed, Emily had just arrived. Perhaps Turned used the deadbolt on the door to hold it open to let Emily get in so the killer wouldn’t need a key to get in if he acted fast.” Malcolm looks past Gil, Dani, and JT at the door trying to keep on piecing this together. No guilt. Something else. “He came in. . .” Malcolm continues meaning the killer and paints the scene he imagines, “He came in, hit Turner, took his gun and shot Emily.” 

You really don’t think that was stupid? 

“This wasn’t a murder-suicide. . .” Malcolm needs to get to the point anyway, finish up here, everybody’s ready to leave anyway and he doesn’t need the guilt of this hotel weighing him down and into the ground. “It was a double homicide.” 

Both JT and Dani wriggle trying to think through what this will mean but Gil shoots a smirk in Malcolm’s direction nodding this off but let’s him know, _Prove it._


	17. Seventeen: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm's taken off the Paul Lazar case as Colette Swanson fully takes over.

# Seventeen

**Present**

It’s still Christmas, not that it matters too much. Somewhere else out in the city, Ainsley is growing angrier and Jessica is growing more annoyed all while Malcolm is back where he belongs presenting information again about the case.

“The killer dispatched Emily with one shot but took their time with Turner.” He pauses looking around the room. Behind him is the layout of the entire hotel, the hotel room in question, photographs of Emily and Ian as well as crime scene photographs. “Posed him. Turner was the target, Emily was a casualty of circumstance.” 

Such odd words right there: _Casualty of circumstance_. It happens so easily to the best of them, any of them. Malcolm digs his hands deeper into his pockets. He doesn’t need them in the moment without any words to spare, taking a break to let anybody else to speak up.

JT goes first, “Revenge is usually personal.” 

Except his thoughts are still at home with pastries and spending time with his wife. Who could blame him? He’s sitting there with cold coffee in front of him. Dani is sitting on the table watching his cold cup of coffee even though her own sits beside her leg collecting a chill of its own. There’s lots of chilled tea and coffee cups all over the place. A problem with forgetfulness when focused on what’s important. Murder. 

“And Turner was in there with a hooker, so. . .”

 _Sex worker_ , Malcolm corrects without correcting but Dani does correct him with a whisper, “Sex worker.”

Stil, JT goes on. “So jealous wife or girlfriend?”

Dani shakes her head. “Um, no. . .no, no wife, no family. Work was his life.”

Across the table they’re at stands Gil, he’s hanging onto his cold coffee, which is a bad idea because he’s already taken three sips of it and regretted each one. Chances are, he’ll take a sixth or seventh. He leans into a seat, giving him a chance to give up his cold coffee and yet he hangs onto it muttering to himself, “Sounds like a lot of cops I know.”

“Sounds like you,” Dani adds with such a small smile.

 _Not necessarily_ , Gil retorts while glancing at Malcolm, but it’s a slip up that only he catches, which makes him look down at his feet. It’s impossible to tell if JT or Dani spot the awkwardness exchanged between them because Gil avoids looking at Malcolm. Instead, he tries to offer up some sort of facial expression as a retort to Dani and does his best, maybe he fails and so he takes another sip of his cold coffee.

Malcolm heads straight into the point, “I like JT’s theory. Our killer was angry enough that they plowed through an innocent woman to get to their target. Who hated Turner that much?”

Dani somehow manages to laugh with her eyes but this is something she does. It’s something about the look she gives the comment without ever really giving it a look or words to the comment. Her brain is popping with ideas, all jumbled up like a ball of yarn that’s a lost cause. JT chuckles as he raises his eyebrow and nods at this idea. He’s also thinking through some names, they’re as cluttered and messed up as a ball of yarn that’s been dropped too many times, a lost cause.

“Ever perp in Sing Sing,” JT manages to put to words.

JT’s still playing around with his ball of yarn making no sense of any actual name that could help them or any of them or anybody who really knew Ian Turner.

The door to the room clicks open as Colette Swanson walks in. She’s ignoring all of them and speaking to somebody, “Let’s set up in her.”

 _Oh no_ , Malcolm finds himself stuck in the same thought looping through his mind as he does his best to look around the room and not at her as she continues to walk into the room. People are falling her with evidence boxes marked FBI. 

_Oh no_ but with Gil around, he’d need to keep his thoughts straight not with. . .not to mention it feels as if people are always listening to him, to his thoughts, a casual side effect of always hearing somebody else's. Instead, he tunes into the first random song he can cling to ward off some past events between him and. . .Colette who is still walking straight into the room.

_Oh, no, no, no, no, no. Walking in the sand, ( **Remember** ) walking hand-in-hand, ( **Remember** ) The night was so exciting. . ._

No, wait. . .that isn’t helping. . .

Already Malcolm’s watching her enter, they make eye contact but Colette ignores this factor by speaking up, for everybody to hear and everybody to know, she’s not there to chit chat with Malcolm. “Good morning, Lieutenant Arroyo.”

Who in response shoots off a _Bright_.

Malcolm digs his hands deeper into his pockets.

And. The. Whole. Time. Colette is in the room, she’s shrugging off her peacoat so she’s just in her blazer. Even though she’s speaking to Gil, she stares across the room right at Malcolm who looks back at her.

Colette continues, “Thank you for this accommodation.”

For real this time around, Gil nods and replies, “Anything for the FBI. . .”

The two people following her start dropping off evidence boxes even with Dani sitting on the table, she’s stuck there looking down at one of them while somebody doesn’t mind their own business.

Gil takes another sip of cold coffee. “Though I’m not sure I had a choice.”

It’s barely been a minute even if it’s been a minute since entering the room, Colette hasn’t looked away from Malcolm. Eye Contact is a funny thing. In the animal kingdom, it’s a sign of aggression. For example, among primates, eye contact is seen as an implicit signal of threat because it often connotes the social status of an individual primate and imminent physical aggression. While nonhuman primates might tolerate eye contact, it can still be used to communicate such aggression.

“Special Agent. . .” Colette starts as she picks at the sleeves of her coat on the table. 

Only for real this time, Malcolm glares at her. His back molars cracking under the duress of clenching his teeth. Colette’s keeping a somewhat smile for all of them. She has to, working with so many people, trying not to act on a past but instead stay professional in the moment. 

“No, wait, that’s not right. . .”

Gil slowly turns to look at Malcolm. The tension between the two is too palpable. Not something easy to break through but he attempts to do so with a _Bright?_

Back molars still cracking, the anxiety is back, needling its way through Malcolm's stomach and into his heart. It’s pumping through his bloodstream. Not like there was ever any way to get it to stop from the start. He doesn’t look at Gil, can’t find it as he continues to stand there glaring at Colette but offers Gil an actual truth: _I. . .messed up._

“What the hell do they call you around here?”

Now there’s question marks being fired off by JT and Dani, the two swinging their attention between Colette and Malcolm. Each question mark followed by an exclamation point. A load of _?!_ themed fireworks in their brains. Leaving Gil to half ask, _What’s that supposed to mean?_

Malcolm rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet as if it’ll help get rid of some of that balled up anxious energy. Just pins and needles everywhere. His lungs not quite working with the tension beating down on them. It’s amazing he can actually speak by the sheer force of his clenched jaw seconds ago.

“Hello, Colette.” Malcolm’s hands are still in his pocket and Gil’s haunted by his slight confession of _I messed up_. With each vowel, his jaw seems to click, something-something TMJ. “ _Bright_ usually works.” His fingers fidget matching to the beat of his clicking jaw.

Colette snorts and shakes her head. “Ah. Not for me.” Again with the eye contact, not that it ever stops. But she starts to come closer and closer around the table. “My task force has taken over the Paul Lazar case.”

Somehow even with Malcolm never breaking eye contact, the mood pops. His jaw clicks less as he starts talking real fast again the way he always does, a different sort of excitement bubbling up. “The Junkyard Killer! I know, we’ve been looking into his past.” His words almost slur together. 

Rather than keep his same stance, he moves around the table coming closer and closer to Colette. He glances at JT and Dani for a split second before returning to the moment. This moment is about him and Colette. Or it’s actually about him and the Junkyard Killer, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

Either way, nothing’s gonna stop him from rambling on. Not even the sharp pain that remains in his back most molars or the anxiety slithering inside his heart. Besides, it’s best not to be caught up in the past. Not their past. Not a different time for him and her. This is the present. Obviously. Not the time to fall out of time.

“Paul’s motives are based on a deep self-hatred.” Malcolm stops with such little space between him and Colette. “He was most likely raised by a single mother who. . .”

Colette laughs, which actually shuts him up. Malcolm sucks in his lips and she takes the floor. “Wooow. . .less-less than 30 seconds to get to the bad mom.” _Who does he think. . ._ but she can’t even finish the thought as if words can’t register what the fuck is going on with Malcolm, his words, his life, his theories, his profiling. “That must be a new record.”

 _Bright?_ Gil keeps an eye on Malcolm.

Malcolm attempts to get some words in, “I was just. . .”

But no, Colette isn’t going to let this happen again. “Blaming a woman for a man’s misdeeds? Yeah, I caught that, too.” _It’s not like his issues even lie on his mom. . ._

Still on the other side of the table, JT is looking back and forth between the two. His thoughts are still all _?!_ fireworks before one loud _I’M OUT_ , and cold coffee in hand, he is in fact out as he scurries out of there.

Malcolm inhales deeply trying to push any of them, all of them out of his head and focus on the present. Not this past. It’s the present they’re talking about the Paul Lazar case they’re talking about. “I was simply pointing out that serial killers aren’t just born, they’re also made.”

 _Like. . .you. . ._ it’s impossible to tell who even said that, it’s somewhere hidden in the room or inside Malcolm’s own head. It could’ve been him all along or him and the rest of the world saying the same old, same old, _Like. . .you. . ._

Colette’s still nodding and nodding and nodding like this is something she agrees on until they lock eyes again. Eye contact is a sign of aggression and it’s as if she throws down the gauntlet, “And sometimes they’re just born.”

 _Like. . .you. . .like. . .you. . .like. . .you. . ._ Malcolm looks down.

Colette folds her arms. “Why don’t you leave your mommy issues at home?” But then she adds, her and Malcolm lock eyes for a split second. Gil catches this, finding himself at such a loss for words. _Or should I say. . .dad?_ Because this adds a whole other layer to Colette. Malcolm’s looking at her feet. For the rest of the order, Colette speaks out loud, “This case needs a new perspective. I need bodies, so who can you spare?” She lowers her arms as she faces Gil.

Malcolm’s rocking back and forth behind Gil who is stuck between the two of them. He keeps his thoughts emptied out as best as he can before Colette. “I can’t really spare anyone. My team’s working a homicide.” He doesn’t mean to but somehow lets it slip. _Dani might work best with her though. . ._

With this Colette whips around looking at Dani who is still sitting on the table taking this all in with no comment at all. “It’s Powell, right?”

Dani’s jaw drops as she’s forced to stop looking at the scene now that she’s a part of the scene. Colette is facing her as she tries to form some words getting out a “Dani.” Of course, she can’t help it, she points at Colette and Malcolm. “Uh, how do you two know each other?”

Gil catches half-formed thoughts from Malcolm and Colette, _Mistake_.

“Colette’s a profiler. We worked together in DC.”

“Barely,” Colette sighs.

Malcolm comes so close to actually saying something along the lines of _Hey_ out loud but Colette’s not looking at him and rolling her eyes forcing him to look at the ground again feeling his molars cracking again.

“I read your file, I was really impressed,” Colette continues with the conversation at hand. The tension’s decreasing in the room as she looks at Dani instead. “I need someone to walk me through what you have. Is that something you think you can do?”

Dani looks at Gil who stands a little straighter. It's his turn for some jaw pain. He can’t get anything in and Malcolm’s still really focused on the ground trying to count the pulses between anxiety slithering through him.

Colette chuckles as she looks at Gil, “Your commissioner promised the resources I need.”

Gil opens his mouth to start talking again but as per usual, Malcolm rushes back in head first. While his feet are firmly rooted to the ground, he snaps at her, “ _Colette_! Paul Lazar called me. I have a personal connection. . .”

“With a serial killer, yes.” _I’m aware._ “That’s the best reason yet not to use you.”

Malcolm and Colette are so close to butting heads, Gil puts a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. _Bright_.

Colette instead points out, _Whitly_.

“Take Dani,” Gil tells Colette. He gives Dani a look simply stating, “For 24 hours.”

Dani sighs unsure to roll her eyes or not because as Gil said at the top. They’re working on a case and an important case. Not that there’s any less importance of worrying about Paul Lazar, but still. Still keeping one hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, he says, “You’re with me.” 

Gil let’s go of Malcolm, picks up his cold coffee and takes a bit sip out of it wrinkling his nose forgetting about the whole cold factor. He holds it up to Colette and exits.

Malcolm stares at his feet before Colette without any more words to share. He stares at his feet as he walks and she follows him out grabbing onto the door. He turns, they’re face to face again as she hangs in the doorway. 

Colette starts closing the door getting in a _Merry Christmas_ and slams the door shut. They hold eye contact as she closes the blind. They hit the window sill ending the moment and Malcolm still stands there without a lot to say because how does somebody even say something to all of. . .that.

Instead, Malcolm starts to walk away, running his tongue over the back of his teeth knowing this is the sort of time one should practice breathing exercises. Mindfulness brings back memories though because it’s the break in the now, now, now, which is what keeps him going and avoiding getting stuck watching the horror movie of his so-called life. Gil’s already at his desk dropping a giant box onto it.

Gil looks at him, _Turner’s files._ Malcolm sits down at his desk with a little light on. He’s picking at the skin around his nails staring at the box. _Go through his cases. Someone in there wanted to kill him._

Sighing, Malcolm starts to unpack the first one and Gil’s gone without seeing any of his attitude. His muscles are all wound up tight ready to fight, if need be. An unfortunate side effect of hyperarousal. He’s reaching for a folder when his phone buzzes, startling him, his finger catches a bad edge resulting in a papercut. 

**Ainsley Whitly** pops up on his screen. 

Malcolm sucks his semi-injured finger as he uses his unharmed hand to cancel her call. Another bad side effect of hyperarousal is startling easily. As Malcolm attempts to piece together some documents to look through another symptom comes to mind, and is unfortunately the worst in his current situation: Inability to concentrate.


	18. Eighteen: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm finds a photograph of somebody he used to know.

# Eighteen

**Present**

Malcolm pushes files back into their rightful place but pauses to get a good look at the room Colette and Dani are in. The door opens for a second. He can’t make anything out and sighs before looking back at the box he just repacked. Real quick, Malcolm looks through a little finding aid he created for himself when he started and makes sure it’s back in the same order. At some point somewhere he learned proper archivist approaches. The initial format a collection is in is important and should be maintained that way because it describes the context of the archive.

Next, he pulls up a new box finished with that one, and starts with fresh paper. He labels the top with the box number he’s on and starts to look at the first few folders. Making notes on what is what before spotting what appears to be an out of place envelope sticking out. 

For no rhyme or reason, he plucks it free noticing the folders it’s in between. It’s an orange envelope but looks more like one for mail and inside of it are some old photos.

He’s about to drop it back into place and wait till he gets there but it’s as if the photograph speaks to him. It whispers some words, but no, it’s not the photograph but instead a memory. Great, Malcolm comes so close to freedom by looking away. A ghostly hymn snatches him, trying to drag him straight back to final moments at the Overlook.

_Regrets. . .I’ve had a few but then again, too few to mention. I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption. . ._

Sounds like the anthem an old cop would love.

Malcolm closes his eyes trying to banish the old ghostly hymn from his thoughts, his hand trembles not really helping him out with seeing the image. He holds it together as best he can with both his hands. 

There’s Ian Turner. 

Ian Turner is in this photograph. 

But. It’s not Ian Turner who he’s thinking about and not Ian Turner who caught his attention, but a past that can’t give up. There’s two men in the photograph, there’s Ian Turner then there’s another police officer who Malcolm himself once knew.

Locked up in one of the front rooms at the Overlook Hotel. It was amazing how long those emergency lights stayed on. Even injured they kept him inside one of the front offices. 

For some reason, they kept up sitting inside a pretty dark room and people were on the other side. Somebody had found a little radio underneath the counter. Other cops and paramedics out there, waiting around, checking out the scene, exploring the scene, doing whatever it was that they did. Those on break cranked up the volume listening to Frank Sinatra spit out words over a rusty speaker.

_I ate it up and spit it out, I faced it all and I stood tall and I did it my way._

Malcolm kept trying to not look at the cop across from him. His big off white sweater was still pretty wet from the snow outside. It soaked through, chilling him to the bone, but he didn’t say a word afraid somebody would point out he was a liar or he was making it up or he was exaggerating or trying to get out of this locked up room and away from this man because he didn’t want to admit some alleged truth.

“Hey Malcolm, over here,” said the cop. 

He wore street clothes and didn’t look like an officer or a detective. It was impossible to define his role, but life moved at a strange pace out on the snowy side the hotel overlooked. Malcolm kept trying to count the cracks he saw all around the room but the cop snapped his fingers in his face to get his attention. 

“I’m Detective Shannon.” 

He left room for Malcolm to respond, but Malcolm wasn’t about to open his mouth to say any words other than maybe _I have to use the bathroom_. It’d be hard to find words to better define how corners and darkness moved throughout the Overlook. 

Once people went around yelling: _The devil made me do it_. 

The devil was easy to blame because they were such a delight. 

If Malcolm dared, he could try: _The Hotel made him do it_. But there were two of them. His father and the other. The man who seemed to exist in between realities who claimed out loud, the hotel wanted Malcolm dead because _the shining_ or so he assumed. Before Jessica and Ainsley could find him with actual blood on his hands, he cleaned it off letting it stay a secret.

Malcolm sat there staring at Detective Shannon doing his best to not react in any sort of way. Except the whole time, the detective stood in front of him holding eye contact.

“Hey, I’m trying to talk to you, kid.”

Malcolm sighed, people couldn’t casually drop the _ghost_ word or _psychic_ word or any of those surrounding details. He should’ve spent his time counting the cracks running through the room. 

Outside somebody started to sing along with the radio and somebody cackled yelling to stop. Didn’t they know? Malcolm stared at the door, it felt as if he were in both rooms at the same time but he wanted to wriggle into the next room to be there physically and mentally as he listened to those joking around. It’s bad luck to sing _My Way_ because many met their death right after singing it for karaoke and nobody else sang after but laughed and laughed as if there weren’t. . .

Detective Shannon stood up, staying in full view of Malcolm’s vision. He tried to pick at the wet threads of his sweater while the detective spoke. “Yeah, we just wanted to review your statement about your father’s arrest.”

Except Malcolm put his head down, he pushed the other room from his brain and hoped to combat any ghosts that might try and pry in. The grogginess that once weighed him down so much had been lifted for exhaustion and fatigue to stop him. 

He muttered into the table, “I already told you everything.” 

Weird to think. He ran his fingers across the tabletop. It all started here. His father had been interviewed and received the position to work at the Overlook. Somehow those moments were trapped up in the table. He could pick them free. His father sitting there, doing his best smiles and charming the man who hired him while thinking such terrible thoughts about him. Ones he wasn’t ready to accept or form and couldn’t break free from the moment he stumbled into them.

Detective Shannon leaned across the table. “Yeah, but, um. . .here’s the thing. The security guard who called us and was on the scene before they took your dad away, said that he overheard you and your dad share some parting words.”

It felt like an eternity out there in the world. He trudged through the snow without much protection. Jessica worried about frostbite as she carried Ainsley. All Malcolm had was a pocket knife, it wouldn’t do much in a fight against a fully grown adult and an ax. To think, he’d called Gil right before then right before the _snap_. 

Martin’d been fine and somehow it all came together, the reason behind the danger behind every corner beyond the ghosts who called the Overlook home. He’d called out to Gil then realized at Martin greeted him that Gil wasn’t going to make it and he needed to put a stop to it.

They pulled Martin away, he acted normal all over again first simply blaming the hotel for the reason to why he lost it. He and Malcolm fixed the boiler in time not letting the place explode. But Malcolm wanted to stay hidden down there, wedged between dust, out of sight of his father, out of sight of the police who soon arrived, out of sight of all the ghosts like the crooked woman who crawled around there. Somehow if he ever happened to hear her she begged him to _Jump_.

And Detective Shannon repeated the word Martin Whitly said to Malcolm as he was pulled away. One last moment and in the boiler room out of all places. The words left the detective’s mouths because for some reason, Gil apparently told him or maybe it was somebody else. A lot of people were around that night.

“‘We’re the same.” Detective Shannon leaned across the table. Malcolm dug some fingernails into the wood welcoming splinters while a tremor ran through his other hand. The detective watched anxiety wound its way all throughout him before looking him in the eye and asking, “Why do you think he said that? That’s what I can’t figure out.”

Malcolm catches his breath losing the photograph. He folds his hands together hoping to stop his one hand from shaking. Somehow the chill of the past finds him in the present, which isn’t ok. None of this is ok. None of this is ever going to be ok. Malcolm buries half his face into the backs of his hands and is stuck sitting there with the photograph of Ian Turner and Detective Shannon watching him.

This isn’t ok. None of this is ok. None of this is ever going to be ok. Malcolm turns catching Gil as he’s walking by with some hot coffee.

_Gil?_ Malcolm calls out.

“Yeah?” Gil asks, letting it slip even though this conversation started elsewhere. Then he sees Malcolm there. His face still buried in the backs of his hands as he’s looking at the photograph. Gil takes one look at this and shakes his head. “No, no.” He takes a sip of too hot coffee unable to find a happy medium. “No, look for something else Bright, and then give me a shout.”

Except Malcolm peers up at him. Not gonna happen.

Gil sighs, he blows on his coffee and starts to walk away. _Just. . .let me have this one thing first before you make more bad decisions._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next! We're back at the Overlook Hotel so I hope you're all ready for a lot of ghost stories. I've been working real hard on some ideas and how everything connects in a nice way with lots of spooky.


	19. Nineteen: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm wakes up in a bar inside the Overlook. 
> 
> He doesn't know how he got there.
> 
> But what he knows: **Something isn't right**.

# Nineteen

**Past**

_I’ve heard this song before._

Such a regular thought but one Malcolm cannot quite pinpoint why it’s a problem. For some reason, the Overlook only catered to those who enjoyed older music. The type he imagined being played on phonographs from movies he’s only ever heard or seen satirized but not seen himself. The sort where men with such square jaws mumble phrases like: Out of all the gin joints in the world, she had to walk into mine.

Malcolm sat up but his movement felt like the noise of scraping cloth across velvet. A dryness was to it causing him to wince. He had no idea how he got there or where he was for that matter. He laid in the middle of a large room in the Overlook. 

Music played while glasses scraped away. There were a few people laughing and other people chatting, but never from anybody he recognized. He sat up though knowing this song. It sounded live as if somebody played it in the room. He sat up there looking around. Tables collected dust with chairs on top of them. 

The music continued to play as well as all the other sounds, but it wasn’t even like anybody was around. A single glass sat at the bar though. There were plenty behind it without a sign of alcohol. Glasses for pure decoration and a single pint glass full of beer sat on the bar as if it were waiting for him or probably something more of age for drinking in the United States.

 _You must remember this. . ._ The song begged. A different tune than the one from the woman in. . .

“Hello?” Malcolm said to the bar staring at the single beer waiting. 

He looked around him. The floor was pretty dusty, a mess except there weren’t any footprints on how he got there. Not at all. Instead, it looked as if he slid or crawled across the floor to lie underneath a table to watch old dry gum hang out to such sad old songs.

. . .There was a woman in Room 217. He was pretty sure he saw her, but couldn’t recall if it was moments ago or a few days ago. 

At first, he thought she was showering and singing a different sort of sad song than the one currently playing. Not one to remember but one reminding him that, he’ll be seeing her again.

Only as he crept closer the memory faded as if somebody cracked it open like an egg and peeled the shell of it away. She’d been standing there and showering until he stood right before the mint green tub to realize instead, a woman was curled up inside of the bathtub looking dead, very dead, dead in the tub.

_It’s still the same old story, A fight for love and glory, a case of do or die. . ._

“Malcolm!” Martin stood in the doorway to the bar area. Malcolm didn’t move toward him because it’d be like he pushed his way through velvet. Something was wrong with his brain. Martin made his way across the room. His movement caused dust to fly up all over the place. “My boy, where have you been? What are you even doing in here?” 

Malcolm said nothing while he continued to stand there. He realized his notebook was on the floor and went to pick it up but Martin got it first. His notebook and pencil. He looked down at it, at some of the words across the pages. Martin said nothing at first letting the music play and play and play while there were still the whispers of invisible conversations. Somebody clinked glasses together laughing as they said “Slainte” while others said “Cheers.”

Martin looked up from the notebook. “What’s this?”

Looking at the ground, Malcolm shrugged. “Research.”

“Research? What kind of research?” 

Again, Martin paged through his pages notes on **Family Annihilator** and other murders he found hiding in the corners of the Overlook. A drawing of the strange Irish Elk topiary that attacked him with a few vague sketches of unrelated birds. Then in a corner, there were brief notes with a lot of question marks surrounding the woman he found in Room 217. 

Martin stared at that single page for a few minutes before he snapped his attention back up to his son, “Malcolm. . .did you see somebody else staying here?”

Of course Malcolm had a finger pointing at the information about her. Even the quick vague hums he heard from her as he wrote **showering (?)** but also he wrote **dead (?)** and **Who could she be? And how did she get here?**

“No. . .” Malcolm whispered. “I think. . .it was just my imagination, I think.”

“You and your imagination.” Martin chuckled. He closed the notebook handing it back to Malcolm. “Either way, don’t you think it’s a little inappropriate to sneak up on somebody in the shower?”

All Martin got out of him was a nod while Malcolm stared at the floor.

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about?” Martin took one of the seats down off the table to sit so he’d be closer to eye level with Malcolm who refused to look up. 

“I don’t think so.”

Martin smiled at him and Malcolm partially peered up. “I’ve heard it can get lonely out here so if you need to talk, please understand, you can always talk to _me_.”

Malcolm nodded while looking at his father.

“But I am going to have to draw the line at. . .” Martin used his thumb to point over his shoulder at the beer sitting on the bar. “. . .I am going to have to draw the line at drinking alcohol alone. You should come to me first so we can share your first drink, I’ll lay out the rule, but just don’t tell your mother.”

“. . .Right. . .” whispered Malcolm, taking a step to the side. 

Malcolm met Martin’s eyes coming real close to let him know for a fact that the beer was just there, he somehow just woke up at a bar without any memory of how he got there. Didn’t sound the best defense but something simmered underneath the majority of Martin’s thoughts. 

The loudest layer of his thoughts were a checklist. Going through all of the hotel responsibilities and making sure he didn’t forget the boiler room otherwise the entire place would blow up. Yet Malcolm almost clung too tight to a quiet one, it snaked his way out and into his heart for some reason. _He couldn’t know. Does he? He’s smart. No. How would he?_

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” Martin asked Malcolm. 

“No.” For added effect, Malcolm shook his head.

 _We’ll have to keep our eye on him._ Martin chuckled giving his shoulder a little push. “You sure? You’re standing there staring at me and it’s a little weird.” _What would I do if he even. . .?_

“Can I choose the next song?” Malcolm changed the subject not wanting to go where his father was about to travel. Didn’t sound good. Something wasn’t right.

“Music?” Martin looked around. A different layer leaped to the top of his thoughts. _What? What’s he talking about? What?_ “What are you talking about? What music?”

“Oh. Nevermind. . .!” 

Malcolm scooted away from Martin, he hugged his research and pencil to his chest. He was about to make a quick exit when he realized Mr. Watkins now sat at the bar. At some point, he must’ve walked in when Malcolm acted all squirrely. Watkins raised a glass in his direction while somebody moved behind the counter, he cleaned a pint glass before putting it behind them. 

As Malcolm took a closer look or really, it felt almost as if he stared longer at the shelves the more he realized bottles were full with light shining through them almost making it look as if they glowed.

“I love this song,” the bartender commented. He leaned over to turn up the volume on the radio. The tune of the Woman from Room 217 played over the speaker while Watkins carefully drank keeping an eye on Malcolm standing there.

Somewhere behind, Malcolm heard his father call out. “Is something wrong, Malcolm?” But Malcolm didn’t look back at him. “We can always listen to your Musichead or whatever it’s called you like, no problem.” _What does he know?_

Malcolm inhaled deeply while he stared at the bottled alcohol and the bartender moved about there, cleaning up and wasn’t a person Malcolm ever saw before. 

The bartender looked at him raising an eyebrow. “Can I help you out, son?”

Malcolm shook his head.

The music played:

_I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar place that this heart of mine embraces, all day and through. In that small cafe, the park across the way, the children’s carousel. . ._

No answer came up because Malcolm darted off hugging his research closer to himself. He didn’t stop until he reached the elevators and collapsed into the wall beside them heaving for air. His head and lungs felt rock solid. Thoughts weren’t coming upright. He closed his eyes and struck a button listening to the it chug along with a pointer ticking away calculating the different floors. Something wasn’t right. Something wasn’t right. Not right.

But what wasn’t right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. The next chapter has a lot of descriptions so please stay with me. I promise there's a spooky reason for it, not too much dialogue going on. I'm super excited about this and the next few I have, working on revising them because I feel like some big things fall into place before we go back to the present for somebody to get kidnapped.


	20. Twenty: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm is starting to realize something while staying at the Overlook Hotel, but he can't quite put his finger on it yet.

# Twenty

**Past**

For somebody who saw ghosts, he realized he needed to start believing in them seeing how the room was so full of life and yet his father saw none of it. He heard none of them. 

Malcolm bumped elbows with the probable ghosts while he stood stuck in the middle of the barroom as his father’s friend was sitting right there, right in front of all of them, he was drinking beer in front of them. Malcolm had even seen Mr. Watkins talking to him and talking to Ainsley and talking to Martin and talking to Gil.

A little bell rang as the doors opened. Malcolm moved into them then looked at his notebook, it’s not open but maybe it was something he should note. Somewhere in the pages about the stranger things happening at the Overlook Hotel. With one hand, Malcolm began to open it up and with his other hand, he bumped a button to visit another floor to find some peace, up there was a shared area overlooking the hedge maze. The doors closed with a ding before it clicked away sending him up to the fourth floor.

Malcolm continued to flip through his notebook, he pushed his pencil behind his ear and stopped because something was written in shaky handwriting. He touched the words for no real reason other than maybe it’d help bring him closer to them.

All it said was: **Be careful**. 

No further explanation. 

Malcolm pulled his hand away to grab his pencil to leave a question mark by it only to see red smear across the page. The iconic reddish-brown of blood smeared across his page. He looked at his hand to see his fingertips were drenched in blood yet there wasn’t any pain. 

The elevator rang. 

Its doors opened startling him. 

It knocked the notebook to the ground and he stood stock still because he stood in blood. It flooded the elevator. Splatter ran up along the walls. Each button was smeared in it. Then the floor, right where he stood or if he stood anywhere, he was lost in a thin puddle of blood. It shimmered under the lights like little puddles that caught too much oil after the rain.

Before he could get out, the doors closed and starting to click away all over again. The elevator brought him back to the first floor. At least there was a library waiting for him. It was as if the elevator wanted to scoot him off or away from the above floor and to be honest, no problem. Malcolm slid out looking at how blood tracked across the faux marble floors. He went into the little pretend library dropping his stuff and stood there. Blood was smeared all across his research. It stained the floor and he needed-he needed a restroom. He needed water to wipe the blood off his hands. 

At least one waited in the lobby, didn’t take long. He returned, finding his notebook opened to a different page. Even though he held a few paper towels in hand, the blood trail disappeared. Some newspapers and a scrapbook sat out waiting for him. It was information he found tucked away into corners as if the Overlook wanted him to understand pain. The pain he avoided though was the pain locked up underneath them all in the boiler room.

 _Hey! No fair!_ Ainsley’s voice rang out, sounded like she was down the hall a bit. _It’s my turn! I’m the swan princess this time, not you!_

Imaginary friends were growing tougher and tougher. Malcolm looked from his notebook to the next thing he wanted to start going through. It’d all be stuffed into a folder marked **L, E** which meant nothing to him. But as soon as he opened a scrapbook. Somebody cut out the same face over and over again off milk cartons, flyers, articles, and more. The same woman looked back at him with the same word hanging out around her, **Missing**. 

“Missing persons case,” Malcolm whispered to himself about to write it down on a new bloodstain free page except something else on the page already caught his attention. It’d been written so small and so light as if it weren’t meant to be found. Malcolm needed to squint to make it out better.

**_11/08_ : Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed.**  
**_11/09_ : Woke up in ballroom (?). Remember going to bed. Mother said something to sleep better. Don’t remember falling asleep.**  
**_11/10_ : Is it possible to not remember falling asleep but waking up? I feel like I haven’t slept for days. Ask somebody about it. (Would Gil know? Where did Gil go?)**

None of those words. . .Malcolm couldn’t remember writing any of them down. It was as if he had sliced up film for a brain, something he needed to piece back together but it didn’t even make any sense to why or how any of it was happening. As if the hotel was eating him up from inside out.

Malcolm added:

**_11/11_ : Woke up in bar, heard music, heard voices. Father found me, we talked, said to talk to him, didn’t hear all the noise. Ask him about it later?**

At least his father was smart, he had to be smart seeing he was a surgeon and all or something along those lines. 

Underneath, Malcolm started a new page about a new story of the Overlook. He wrote **Missing L, E** because a name wasn’t listed. When he turned the page, the scrapbook was covered in a collage of security footage. He leaned forward, looking at the grainy images. All appeared to be moving in order as if he could take a flipbook, move through them to make his own animation.

The missing girl was running down a hallway, she kept looking over her shoulder, she went into the elevator, it looked like she hit all the buttons and leaned into the panel. The doors stayed open and open and open with her there. Either it was a mistake with the same image on repeat or she waited that long. Little timestamps in the corner said otherwise. He could trace them all.

11:05; 11:06; 11:07; 11:09. Then L,E looked out at 11:11. 

She looked both ways in the hallway but there were images from 11:11 in the hallway, nobody was there. It played out the same way across all the images. Just buttons were lit up, the elevator moved. One by one the button lights went out and each time she looked into the hallway and nobody was ever seen. Then she left the elevator. 

In a red pen, somebody circled her and noted: **Last known image**.

What did he even write down? What even was the purpose of all this research? His pages were filled with such tragedy. There was this story to accompany the last caretaker killing his two daughters, Alexei and Alexa Grady, his wife, and himself. At some point, he found a several page article in a magazine all about them, but it hung out somewhere else in his little research area or downstairs. 

There was also a story about a mother who took all seven of her children to the roof one day begging them to jump. Nobody knew whether they jumped or not, it was either they jumped or were pushed because one by one they all died, splintered on the pavement before she made a run for it. She went missing for about two months until somebody went into the boiler room and found her hanging from the ceiling there.

 _Stop. . .STOP IT ALEXIE! NO!_ Ainsley interrupted his thoughts again. 

Malcolm glanced at the doorway before back at his notes. A shootout happened at the place, one with lurid details about the mob, which he had no idea was a thing until he read the articles about how all of them had been shot, slaughtered inside the presidential suite.

_AAAAAALEXIE!_

Rather than sit around in some casual loneliness, Malcolm got up to ask Ainsley to be a little quieter. If either of their parental units heard her yelling, they would have terse and harsh words with her about her actions. Only out in the hallway, Ainsley was standing by her little big wheel bike, the sort tots loved as she was tugging at a ball hanging in the air.

“I found it! It’s mine!” Ainsley yanked with all her might and fell backward, she crashed into the big wheel sending it spiraling. She groaned in pain and Malcolm stood there staring at her. She hung out there, upside down hugging the ball to her chest.

“Ains. . .who. . .who are you talking to?” Malcolm asked.

Ainsley rolled her eyes and sat up using a hand to rub the back of her head. And Ainsley retorted, as if he were the stupidest person in the entire world, “Uh Alexie and Alexa! Who else?”

Good question, who else because the only girls with those names Malcolm could think of were dead and besides, they were all alone in the hotel.


	21. Twenty-One: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ainsley is a moody child especially after Malcolm disrupts her time hanging out with her two friends.

# Twenty-One

**Past**

There was a lot of nothing between Malcolm and the two ends of the hallway. The carpet was an eyesore that messed with his peripheral vision. Ainsley said something and she said it again in an attempt to get the better of his attention because while he looked both ways, there wasn’t anybody else around.

Malcolm looked right at Ainsley who whispered, “What?”

“Nothing.” Only the _nothing_ around them was exactly the problem. “Why don’t we go for a walk outside instead? We can go look for different birds, I can go grab my book.”

“No.” Ainsley rapidly shook her head then jabbed her finger at nothing in particular. “ _They_ ’re out there!”

“Who?” But Malcolm knew. He watched the Irish Elk crash into the world around him. Its branches dug up the ground while it went. “Let’s play somewhere else then.”

“Ainsley! We thought you were playing with us,” Two voices piped up in unison.

Malcolm was slow to give them any bit of his attention. He gradually looked with his thoughts all scrambled up on the family who was murdered in the hotel. And not too long ago. The past caretaker killed himself and his family. Two girls stood in the hallway. It wasn’t like they’d been there before and to be so close, they would’ve heard them approaching.

“Who is this?” one of the girls asked right before the other girl asked, “And why is he _here_?”

Ainsley rolled her eyes. “My brother.”

“He can’t play with us,” they replied in unison all over again. “You promised that _you’d_ play with us.”

“Ains, we have to go, I think I hear mother calling for us.” Malcolm put his hand out to take his sister away from the two girls. Neither of them sat right with his brain. The thought sank into the pit of his stomach.   
Ainsley pushed his hand away. “She’s not! You’re lying! And it’s not even dinner time!” 

“Ok, but we really do need to go.” When Malcolm glanced back at the two girls, they stood there, their chins jutting out while glaring at him. It’s weird to look at a person and know an ultimate single fact: **The dead walk here**.

Ainsley folded her arms over her chest taking a step toward the two girls. “Go away! You’re ruining it!”

“Just! JUST! Hold on a second!” First, he said it to Ainsley only to repeat it while looking at the two girls. “Just also you, too, hold on a second.”

Only Malcolm disappeared into the library unable to find what he wanted or needed. He pieced through other stories he’d found before. At some other point, he’d even found a magazine covering their story at the Overlook and notes underneath different photographs. _Last known photograph of Alexie & Alexa Grady._ Instead, his fingers brushed across different stories of girls gone missing and notes of his own confusion.

**_11/10_ : Is it possible to not remember falling asleep but waking up? Feels like haven’t slept for days. Ask somebody about it.**   
**_11/11_ : Woke up in bar, heard music, heard voices. Father found me, we talked, said to talk to him, didn’t hear all the noise. Ask him about it later?**

“. . .Ainsley. . .!” Malcolm yelled as he left the library to find her waiting there scowling at him. “What?”

“ _Malcolm_! They’re gone! Because of you!”

Malcolm looked around not spotting the girls anymore. They’re all gone. He froze up noticing somebody gouged plaster from the wall. Gutted by some sort of weapon with old brown blood stuck inside its crevices.

Ainsley harrumphed, dragging his attention right back to her.

“Why don’t we do something together? It doesn’t have to be outside.” Malcolm suggested. 

Ainsley stuck out her bottom lip and huffed as she marched away. The hallways stretched onward into oblivion, not that she knew such a word. After all, she was such a small child. A small child with a brief grudge. Malcolm’s the reason her friends left her alone leaving her stuck with nothing else to do. Maybe she’d spit in his orange juice, if he drank orange juice at any point in the near future. Maybe she’d even ask mom for orange juice and then they could leave this place for a few minutes, get some fresh air, and she personally was a fan of orange juice. Although was Malcolm a fan of orange juice? She’d ask him first before asking their mom to go out and by the orange juice so she could spit in it.

“Pst.”

Ainsley almost fell into a wall, too startled to stay standing tall. Even though her heart ached as it hammered in her chest, she turned to face the noise. Nobody was there though. Just another door. Door after door after door filled the entirety of the hallway. The hallway that stretched into _oblivion_. It sounded more like a dad or Malcolm word.

“Psst!”

The sound didn’t unbalance her the second time around. She peered back and forth in the hallway noticing one of the doors was open. Somebody was there, she could spot their shadow fluttering across the crack. 

A few times she spotted something strange and unnatural curtailing around the halls. Whenever she brought it up, Alexa and Alexie told her in unison, _There’s nothing to fear, we’re all safe here._

“PST!” The shadow stopped swaying while Ainsley stared. “ _Ains_. . .Ainsley!”

“Dad?” Ainsley replied. She headed down the hall toward the slightly ajar door. It opened a little more. Not her dad. Instead, she recognized the person there. Her father’s friend from when the wasps attacked. For some reason, Ainsley took a step away from him. He wasn’t a stranger yet felt like a stranger. Did that still count as stranger danger?

“You look sad, why are you so sad?”

Ainsley decided to go for a silent head shake as a response.

“Sorry to hear that.” He reached somewhere behind himself only to pull out what appeared to be an angel figurine. It looked as if somebody made it of clay only to smoosh it. “That’s for you, sweetheart, turn that frown upside down.”

“Oh! Thanks, Mister. . .” Wait, he had a name she couldn’t memorize. Ainsley looked him up and down as if it’d help her better understand his name. With no name tag in sight, she ended up blurting, “Boots.”

“Boots?” The man chuckled. “What?”

Ainsley pointed at his feet, he sure had on some muddy boots. If her mother saw them, she’d be mortified even though the carpet sure was hideous. “Mr. Boots.”

“Thanks for the nickname, kid.” He ruffled her hair while she looked at the smooshed angel. 

Even with her hair now a mess, Ainsley hung out right there. She looked up finding the man gone as if he never stood around there. The door pulled shut in front of her. A good sign that he stood around at one point or another. Ainsley hid the little figurine in her palm before continuing her angry march back to their current home.


	22. Twenty-Two: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm is so close to piecing together what may be wrong and yet so far away from understanding any of it.

# Twenty-Two

**Past**

Without Ainsley, Malcolm stood alone blinking several times to realize the wall in front of him was actually normal. The gutted remains of it ceased to exist. Of course, right? There wasn’t really crusty blood across its wound. He imagined it all. His brain brought it to life because as soon as a thought crept inside, it writhed around too fast skewing his thoughts. His mother complained about his brain because it led him into dark corners and there’d been Tommy, his so-called imaginary friend who warned him: _You won’t be safe in Colorado_.

“Wait!” Malcolm blurted to nobody in particular, he hoped he was alone but chances of ever being alone at the Overlook Hotel were slim. “It’s downstairs! It’s. . .downstairs. . .” 

He’d found the magazine before while digging through the boiler room at some other point. If it wasn’t up here then it’d be down there. He was careful to not leave trails of murder behind in their pretend apartment. His mother would have a fit if she ever found out his sick new obsession. He followed an invisible path to descend into the bowels of the Overlook.

The journey straight into darkness felt as if his insides were bruised. A deep sick feeling inside of him. He saved a little flashlight in his back pocket knowing they’d meet again and again. There was some old song he heard his family play.

_Hello Darkness, my old friend._

Now the light didn’t help out a whole lot. A bit of it sliced through the murky darkness. Humidity weighed it down with being so close to the boiler or so Malcolm guessed.

_I’ve come to talk with you again._

Before he struck the last, last level he let the flashlight scan its way through the darkness to be sure he was alone. All he needed was to be alone, alone again, alone down here.

_Because a vision softly creeping, left its seeds while I was sleeping._

Ghosts weren’t good company.

Malcolm closed his eyes for a split second once he touched down on the lowest level. He let the absence of sight increase his hearing but only the boiler grumbled. Alone. Alone. Alone again. 

_And the vision that was planted in my brain still remains._

He made his way over to the boxes full of newspapers and magazines. The stories of murder all compounded into one spot.

Dust floated and danced around him. His knees scraped the floor knocking more up into his face causing his nose to itch and himself to sneeze. Malcolm managed to catch it in the crook of his elbow. When nothing else made a sound, not even a mouse, he returned to the stories in front of him. Except before Malcolm could uncover the story of the family annihilator all over again to prove to Ainsley why her friends weren’t her friends, but instead the ghosts of murdered girls.

Murdered girls couldn’t make good friends.

There wasn’t any sign of the girls though. There wasn’t any sign of the father or the mother. He pried through it only to pause hating the idea falling into his brain at the sight of some old headline. The paper curled with slight decay.

**Burglar uses Chloroform: Attacks a Woman in Room 237, Robs Her and Cuts off her Hair**

No photo but underneath the article speared its way straight into the story.

_According to experts, beautiful hair for wigs can be as valuable as some jewelry._

That imagination struck sending shivers down his spine thinking of how somebody had to find the woman with her hair shorn off and all her items gone. For some reason, he folded the paper and pressed down on its new crease. He squeezed it into his other pocket before returning to his search for those Grady girls.

“Pst.”

Malcolm froze. 

He’d read about the crooked woman he found in the basement.

About how she threw all her children from the rooftop and hanged herself down here. They didn’t find her body for weeks. Police searched the town and further for her hoping to arrest her when she’d been falling to pieces beneath them all along.

Malcolm closed his eyes letting his hearing do some seeing. A muffled voice spoke up, it only spoke in gibberish and not quite at him. The gibberish sounded as if something or somebody tumbled over into some distant corner. It shut up and something slid across the floor. 

Maybe if Malcolm told himself: _It’s just shoes crunching along the ground like how shoes crunch on grave_. Wasn’t like there was any gravel for the basement floor. Yet something slid forward brushing dust-up tickling his nose. His elbow caught his sneeze and then he opened his eyes for the first time to greet the fact that he wasn’t ever alone down there. Peering over his arm, he shined the light before him to find. . . _nothing_.

To be sure, Malcolm scanned the room with his light not seeing anything of interest. He checked each corner accidentally whispering out loud to himself each time, “Alone. Alone. _Alone_.”

Pst! 

But that time around it sounded like the sole of a shoe for sure squeaking across the ground. He went to look over his shoulder to see what was coming. 

There wasn’t anything nearby to protect himself and he had no idea if it’d help with a ghost antagonist. Maybe his brain could save him. He had the shining according to Gil and maybe he could shine real bright, brighter than the light in hand. 

Only as he turned something grabbed a hold of him. Pressure hoisted him from the ground. His knees scraped the ground as some space came between him and the floor and somebody smothered him. His lungs burned without any oxygen entering them only it was worse when he attempted to breathe cause the burning grew, it seared his lungs, his mouth, and his chest right before the darkness took him.

**Burglar uses Chloroform: Attacks a Woman in Room 237, Robs Her and Cuts off her Hair**

“MALCOLM!”

Never before had a name sounded so violent. Jessica wielded each letter as if it were its own weapon. A series of knives or axes struck Malcolm. His head ached alongside all of his muscles. He rolled over burying his face into his pillow.

“Malcolm! Don’t you dare! You’ve been like this long enough, it’s time to wake up, get up, and start your day.”

When Malcolm sat up, he came face to face with his mother who put a hand on his forehead. She waited a few seconds and began to nod as if she were a doctor all along. “No more fever!” She backed away from him heading toward the kitchen area, which meant. . .

_What?_

“Fever?” Malcolm’s voice sounded all raspy. For a second, he feared he’d lost his voice all together. That the word in his brain would never leave. He looked all around. “How-How did I get here?!”

Jessica rolled her eyes. She popped the cork on a bottle of wine. “That’s not very funny, Malcolm, we’ve been here already for what? A month? More?” She began to pour herself a glass. “Seems longer than that.”

“NO!” Malcolm didn’t mean to snap. It did get Jessica to actually stop pouring her glass of wine. “I mean, how did I get here from the boiler room?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The boiler room! I was down in the boiler room! Something attacked me!”

Jessica took one long sip of wine, it seemed to be necessary as if it were her life source. “Malcolm, stop this nonsense before you scare your sister.”

But Malcolm looked all around, he wasn’t even wearing the same clothes but instead was in pajamas. Somebody was in the bathroom, the toilet flushed and water ran. He glanced up noticing Ainsley stood inside. Not that he meant to spy on her. Just her thoughts were so loud as she watched the water run pretending to watch her hands. In the time she stood there pretending, she could’ve just washed them.

Off to the side waited Malcolm’s notebook. He paged through it finding the same page as the day before and started to write **_11/12_**. Only Ainsley leaving the bathroom with faint thoughts of _Oh he’s awake_ disturbed him with the cacophony of Jessica playing out him rolling and rolling and rolling in his bed almost toppling off it for over 24 hours.

“What’s today’s date?” Malcolm blurted.

“November 13th,” said Jessia before taking another long swig of wine.

“Mr. Boots said it’s Friday the 13th, a bad luck day,” Ainsley added.

The day was November 13th and something. . .wasn’t. . .right. . .

**_11/08_ : Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed.**  
**_11/09_ : Woke up in ballroom (?). Remember going to bed. Mother said something about taking a pill to sleep better. Don’t remember falling asleep.**  
**_11/10_ : Is it possible to not remember falling asleep but waking up? Feels like haven’t slept for days. Ask somebody about it.**  
**_11/11_ : Woke up in bar, heard music, heard voices. Father found me, we talked, said to talk to him, didn’t hear all the noise. Ask him about it later?**

Malcolm held a pencil, it hovered over the page in his notebook while he sat up in his bed. Even with his mother in the kitchen, it felt as if she were hovering around him tweeting like a bird about a fever, fever, fever because somehow he got back there and had a fever?

There was a whole day missing.

**_11/12_ : ????**

“Malcolm, look at me when I talk to you.” At least Jessica caught his attention. Malcolm poked his teeth with the eraser. “Are you sure you’re feeling better?”

Malcolm nodded and offered a smile, just for her.

“Do you want any orange juice? Ainsley and I picked it up from town yesterday.”

**_11/12_ : ????**

“Oh, sure. Yes, please.” Malcolm managed to stay smiling at Jessica even as she turned away. Ainsley stood close by. She peered out of the kitchen at him giggling about something. He rolled his eyes and looked down at his notebook. There wasn’t even a memory around to why he started this, but again it made sense. Nothing stuck and a day was all gone.

**_11/13_ : Woke up in bed. Last thing I remember, boiler room. Looking at newspapers. Then nothing. Is there something wrong with me?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next it's back to the present! It'll be back to that larger arc of the Junkyard Killer for the Silent Night episode and more.


	23. Twenty-Three: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm and Gil have a conversation with Owen Shannon.

# Twenty-Three

**Present**

Malcolm keeps an unsteady beat going on the dashboard while looking at a building right outside Gil’s car. It’s hard for Gil to pay any mind to the building because while the radio is on low, Malcolm isn’t keeping any sort of relevant beat. Doesn’t seem like he notices until he looks over at Gil and mouths _What?_

Gil scowls. _You know what._

But if he let’s the beat stop, it’ll continue to quake inside him without a chance of escape. For Gil’s sake, he stops his fidgeting on the dashboard and almost considers sitting on his hands. “Sorry.”

“I don’t like this, Bright.” 

To make the situation worse, Malcolm lowers the window a bit looking out even though he sinks into his seat a bit. He says nothing as he curls into himself and starts to put the window up. Anything to get the anxiety out, movement helps. It doesn’t actually help, but it’s nice to pretend it helps. All that pent of energy building up.

“Owen Shannon was a bad cop.” Gil sighs, keeping an eye on him. “I don’t need to remind you of that.”

Malcolm stares at the pavement, the window is open halfway. He can’t look up at the door. So much energy thrumming inside of him almost as if little insects are crawling all over his insides. As if wasps with their brassy legs are walking all around him and at any moment ready to sting him, hurt him, wound him. 

“Shannon was the last partner Ian Turner had before he was promoted to chief,” Malcolm admits for the conversation, and it’s a truth, a truth he needs to get back out there in the open between him and Gil. He turns his attention to Gil, stares right at him. _It’s a lead._ With way too much force, Malcolm opens the door.

Gil sighs watching him leave for the door. He pulls his keys from the ignition because what else is he going to do? Let Malcolm run straight into some more nonsense? No. The kid does that enough. At least he can offer him some company in this chaos. 

It’s as if Malcolm’s hidden the fact he’s super fast all along. One second he’s on the curb and the next he’s up some rickety stairs about to bang on the door forcing Gil to power walk the rest of the way to join him.

Before Gil can say anything to Malcolm, Malcolm’s knocking on the door. Real loud, too. There’s an urgency ricocheting off his built of anxiety. The whole time Gil observes him, partially turned to the side as if he’s not too invested in the moment.

_You sure you’re ok seeing him?_ Gil ends up asking knowing the answer is going to be no.

_It was a long time ago_ , Malcolm lies. 

The lie isn’t the _long time ago_ but the false yes the response provides. 

_I’m not scared anymore._ Another clear lie even though Malcolm makes eye contact like it’d make the lie any less false. “And he probably won’t recognize me.” This he says out loud because it’ll sure look odd the longer the two stand there conversing just between themselves.

Poor timing because the metal door he’d been banging on crashes open. Owen Shannon practically bursts out, all guns blazing. He has a handgun aimed right at Malcolm’s head as if he should eat his lies. Nobody’s believing in them. 

The pent up energy of anxiety melts away, drains straight through his feet as flight, fight, or _freeze_ kicks into motion. He stands there staring right back up at Owen Shannon, they’ve met before and here they are meeting again. The past has a bad habit of haunting him and for somebody who sees ghosts, the past somehow winds up being scarier and more dangerous. 

Malcolm can’t find words as he gawks at Owen Shannon who rapidly looks between him and Gil. At least, Gil’s reaching for his weapon leaving Macolm still stuck there on _freeze_. Owen Shannon grimaces, he manages to spit out a “Well, look who it is.” Trigger finger still all tied up with his weapon.

_Breathe, Bright, Breathe._

Malcolm’s not breathing though. The ability to inhale and exhale left him along with all the anxiety, his system is all locked up.

“Gil Arroyo,” Owen Shannon continues. “What you want, Lucky Boy?”

Malcolm manages to breathe in coming close to counting the seconds. You’re supposed to count up to five, hold your breath then for seven seconds then release it for another five. It’s not about him. Not about him at all.

_It’s not always about you, Bright._ “Don’t call me that.”

“I heard you’re in major crimes, congratulations.”

Anxiety’s back with a vengeance. Coursing through Malcolm’s veins, his heart might have palpitations. It’s never easy to tell when panic picks up. “Is that how you greet all your guests?” he retorts, his voice sounding so even as if there’s nothing wrong in the world. As if there’s no bad blood between him and Owen Shannon.

Owen Shannon smirks. He leans into the doorframe. “There’s someone out there killing cops and I’m sure as hell not gonna be the next one.” His voice sounds all rough, the exhaustion of the world weighing in on each word.

Gil’s been stock still the whole time. “How’d you know Turner’s dead?”

“My partner dies, I’m gonna hear about it. Now show some respect, _Lucky Boy_.”

Right when it appears this conversation isn’t going anywhere, it does. It goes inside. Inside with Owen and Gil following him right away. Freeze continues to win as Malcolm watches them enter. Once he shrugs past the doorway, there won’t be a lot of room for an escape, if need be. Gil pauses in the doorway, he gives Malcolm a look without any input. Instead, there’s only white noise churning in his mind. Whatever he’s thinking, he’s not about to let Malcolm in on it, which means, Malcolm’s stuck on the first step with Gil disappearing by the second.

Inhale. _One_. _Two_. Malcolm holding his breath. _Three_. It’s up to him to let the door close behind him. _Four_. The clash of metal forces oxygen to escape. He never made it to five.

There aren’t any lights on and not even a whole lot of natural light. Shudders block the sun out, Owen walks them towards his living room area grumbling away in his head. _I worked The Surgeon case for years. And one phone call from some dumb kid and-and Lucky Boy. . ._

Jokes on him, Owen crosses his clutter to land on a seat not realizing how much the two can actually hear. His words echo in Gil’s mind as Malcolm stays quiet and behind a few steps. Any wrong move and he could trip over the mess on Owen’s floor then fall face-first into the past at the Overlook. Somehow they were all there and now they were all here.

The past is cyclical.

Maybe Owen doesn’t even care because he speaks his thoughts, word for word, out loud. Shaking his head on his seat. “. . .gets the biggest collar of the century.”

At least Gil can have a valid comeback. “Still can’t let that go, can you?”

“There was more to that story,” Owen snaps back. “I knew it. Nobody. . .nobody listened to me.”

There’s the one poem by Robert Frost where he illustrates the world ending in either fire and ice. Anybody with anxiety knows how the two can work with one another. How fire and unfurl inside of you only to be consumed by ice. Freezing up the flames, slowly dripping through your veins as if the warning is unclear to what danger is at hand. 

Malcolm watches Owen sit there unable to come any closer. There’s a disconnect between his brain and his feet. He does what he can to study Owen, how Owen talks, how Owen moves, how Owen keeps repeating his words out loud and in his head _Nobody. . .nobody listened to me_ , and how he moves his handgun making sure it points at them even though his fingers aren’t anywhere on it. He cracks open a beer, it’s impossible to say if it’s a cold one or a warm one. A crown of cans decorates Owen’s feet.

“Good to see some things never change,” Gil says, “but we’re here about your old partner. After The Surgeon case. . .” 

It’s a jolt to the senses, Malcolm grits his teeth not meaning to shoot Gil a _look_ , but it happens so fast.

Gil fails to notice, he’s too busy. “. . .You got reassigned to Turner.”

Behind Gil there’s plaques on the wall commemorating Owen’s previous life. His past haunts him as well, his whole house is haunted with it in fact. Each plaque announces: **NYPD Award for Outstanding Marksmanship**.

Owen’s at least cooperating as he talks with Gil, “And I hope he rots in hell.” Beer in hand, he uses it and his finger to jab at the empty space in front of Gil. “He ruined me.”

Again, the weight of the world on each of his words. Malcolm turns his attention back to the conversation at hand. He’s not too sure if he meant to say the following in his head or out loud, either way doesn’t matter the intent because he says it all out loud. “Looks like you did all that yourself.”

_Bright._

“You’re a drunk, Shannon.” There’s an anger buried somewhere in Malcolm’s words.

Owen doesn’t seem to notice, he casually scoffs at the comment. “Really? Well, everybody needs a hobby.”

Malcolm’s stepping forward. The anger burns inside him along with the frozen anxiety. Off to the side, Gil’s still attempting a silent warning of _Bright_ , but it’s so easy to sweep past it. “Turner made the right call. You were a bad cop, and he knew it. . .” It’s not gonna stop. All the words are spilling over and the anger isn’t buried so much anymore but right in the open. “So he tipped off Internal Affairs and had you fired.”

This time, Gil warns him out loud, “Bright. . .”

“You have a long-held grudge against our victim. You're erratic and angry and six beers in at 11:00 AM.”

Owen rolls his eyes. “Bah, humbug.”

_Bright. . ._

“You’re also in possession of a likely unregistered handgun that you jammed in our faces when we so much as knocked on your door.” It’s no longer fight, flight or freeze but instead just _fight_. Fight with words, fight with whatever you’ve got. Fight. Malcolm doesn’t stop moving across the floor. “You’re our prime suspect!”

That does it.

_Bright!_

Owen slams the beer down and leaps from his seat, it’s as close as to a lunge as he can manage. His quickness dulled by alcohol. It’s too late to hold Malcolm back but Gil comes between them putting his hands up to stop Owen from barreling straight into Malcolm.

Personal space is gone. Even with Gil between the two, Owen snaps in Malcolm’s face. His anger is a different sort. One full of spit and something else lurking underneath all his words. “If I wanted Turner dead, I would have killed him years ago.” There’s no way to get a good read on him. His anger’s also a lot of confuddled colors at once. Emotions wrestling with one another creating a lot of nothing but _anger_ , _anger_ , _anger_. 

Owen’s voice tastes of stale beer, a scent almost bringing Malcolm straight back into the bar area of the Overlook. Malcolm leans back a bit, he needs to abort, peel himself away. His hand quakes as energy returns and he looks at his feet in an attempt to stay present. Owen watches his movement, how his hand shakes with all Malcolm’s pent of energy. Malcolm tries to squeeze it all into the palm of his hands, his knuckles cracking as he forms a fist settling in anger. He looks up to find Owen observing him.

_Bright. . ._

This house, it’s a haunted house, haunted by a past Owen can’t let go. “You did it last night!” Malcolm continues. “You killed Ian Turner for getting you fired! And you hated him so much that you murdered an innocent woman, too!”

_Bright!_ Gil’s reconsidering holding Malcolm back. Maybe he can hold the two back from each other.

Yet something about Owen deflates. “What woman?” He focuses on Gil expecting an answer there. Some of his thoughts clear up, not much. They almost taste sour of jealousy and confusion. There aren’t words or images.

“Turner was found with a sex worker,” Gil explains.

The colors continue as Owen surveys the two again and again. His thoughts are nothing but a scratching record. “A hooker? What? A-A female hooker?” 

The letters can’t connect in his mind. They’re jumbled up in all of the confusion. Only the record needle comes down, it starts to play again, his thoughts return to normal. Some laughter in the back of his mind. Owen’s hands collapse on both Gil’s and Malcolm’s shoulder, holding them there. 

A memory blunders its way up to the forefront, it’s a mess, such a mess. Malcolm almost squeezes his eyes shut. Each thought’s a stabbing pain in his brain as some old tune plays as the past meets a narrative for Owen.

_But you will come to a place where the only thing you feel are loaded guns in your face and you’ll have to deal with (Pressure)._ “Chief Ian Turner. . .was gay.” _You used to call me paranoid (Pressure). But even you cannot avoid (Pressure). You turned the tap dance into your crusade._ His words leave Malcolm and Gil stuck next to each other, staring at one another without further comment. _Now here you are with your faith and your Peter Pan advice, you have no scars on your face and you cannot handle pressure._ Somehow Owen’s chuckling about this and neither Malcolm nor Gil can work through it but it’s getting loud, it’s getting too loud inside. Too loud with Owen’s growing thoughts of him, a Billy Joel song, and ( _All grown up and no place to go, Psych 1, Psych 2. What do you know? _) and Turner, together, but for a split second in time.__

__“I think you two should leave now,” Owen comments with Gil taking the lead for the exit._ _

__Malcolm is stuck still studying Owen who falls back onto his seat with a grunt. Gil goes back, he grabs Malcolm by the shoulder bringing him back. _Come on, Bright._ His hand quakes again, he’s watching Owen as Gil leads him out, and not once does Owen look away from the two of them in their exit._ _


	24. Twenty-Four: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief moment with Ainsley and Jessica before Owen approaches Malcolm in the street.

# Twenty-Four

**Present**

How does one mentally prepare themselves for a family get together? Ainsley runs her own news story in her own head. There has to be answers to such a question then again it sounds closer to Buzzfeed clickbait for the regular family, not the Whitly family. It’s a question for people who needed to wrestle with the fact their uncle is a racist or their grandma has too much pent up internalized misogyny. 

How does one mentally prepare themselves for a family get together after you interview your serial killer father despite your mother’s wishes? You come bearing gifts and pray to the heavens you can survive a night of consistent passive-aggressiveness. 

Reporters crowd the front door as if there’s story to share. She pries her way past them, steps up to the door, and looks out over them. Everybody there comes closer ready to eat her alive. Jokes on them. Her fears are none, it’s what happens when you’re a young girl who befriends ghost kids and never really gets to know her dad because he killed people. 

All of the reporters act as if she’ll throw them a bone and let them know the truth, a truth about the Junkyard Killer and The Surgeon. Instead, she looms above them with a smirk and a prepared comment in her mind. 

“Any breaking news about my family is mine to report, thank you.” 

The gall of them to think she’d answer a single question other than the words that just fell out of her mouth. Please. This is her life, this is her story, she herself is a reporter and it's her narrative to tell.

The reporters call after her begging for more but she whisks herself away into the house. There are bigger sharks to battle. Her mother being the main villain of the day. Her and all her disappointment locked up inside her castle. 

Piano music plays, it adds to the play-acting of a happy holiday. Maybe for somebody who eats up nostalgia, they’d be happy to hear it in the air. Christmas lights decorating note one tree, but two. The first being smaller and near the doors where Jessica stands looking at ornaments. None of which were really dedicated to their lives because what was there to say about the lives of the Whitlys?

Each would have a different answer.

Malcolm would say their past haunts them.

Jessica would say she half remembers laughter in barbiturate induced sleep.

Nobody was going to ask Martin.

And Ainsley also did not have an answer.

“Hello?” Ainsley calls out as she enters their not so humble abode. Her fingers are crossed that Malcolm beat her there. Please let Malcolm already be there.

Jessica turns to face Ainsley armed with her trademark smile (if she were so allowed to file for on). She acts as if she isn’t lost in some thought. To be honest, Malcolm’s the only one who’s right: _Their past still haunts them._ Either way, Ainsley reaches out her gift of wine pretending nothing’s wrong. It’s a regular family about to have a regular family Christmas dinner! A game they both could play all day and night if she so chose. Jessica says no greeting but an _Ah_ as she continues her charade of a smile. For most families, charades is a game where you have a partner and guess what the other is acting out. For them, it’s “What the hell is on [insert Whitly in Question]’s mind?”

Taking the wine bottle she looks at it and by look, it really is a glance. “You. . .brought a twist-off.”

Still no _hello_ , _Hi_ , _There you are!_ , _Malcolm’s on his way_ , or _Glad you could make it_. 

Jessica is the first to lose at their game of charades, sarcasm enters her chuckling as she pulls the wine away leaving Ainsley there holding onto nothing but air and not ready for this, not any of this.

Jessica: 0  
Ainsley: 1  
Malcolm: TBD

She should’ve taken her advice to mentally prepare for this night. And where the hell is Malcolm? He needs to be around, right there at the moment, but no, he’s probably too far gone obsessing over murder forgetting his family remains in the land of the living.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Ainsley grumbles, looking at the pristine tree. 

There were little white birds perched on branches. The only current statement of Malcolm in the house. How odd something like that is what lasted in their decorations. A not so bad Whitly past, Malcolm loved birds for whatever reason. Then again only a child like him could be obsessed with ornithology _and_ forensic psychology or whatever it was he loved. 

Ainsley fumbles with her hands and turns to watch her mother drop the bottle of wine off with snow globes and other miscellaneous Christmas decorations, each and every one curated to look the best as if people wanted to visit their murder abode.

For someone so careful about spearheading the correct questions, Ainsley slips. Her hands slip free from one another as if she can casually grab onto some parental approval. Somehow the words just happen to fall from her mouth, “Did you watch it?” 

Really? Really? She had to ask her _mother_ that? Today was not going to end well.

Jessica faces Ainsley with such an exasperated sigh. “No comment.”

Again with the slipping, all of the slipping. Somehow something knocks something loose and Ainsley needs her mother and her brother and needs them to be there for her. She wants their support, she wants their compliments, she wants instant gratification and for a chance to not let a past haunt any of them. 

“Can’t you at least _try_ and be happy for me?”

It’s another wrong question to ask and so obvious by the way Jessica stares at her. Charades no more.

### 

Malcolm fidgets with a present in his hand. He’s picking at the edges of the bow on the box knowing it’ll mess it up but he can’t stop. His other hand starts a beat on the edge, he scans the area around him. Making sure he’s safe. Tries to convince himself he’s safe as his brain protests: _Danger, danger_. 

It’d be great if danger actually lurked behind corners. Instead, there’s people walking by him, lost in fits of giggles or chuckles as holiday spirit does its best to eat them all up inside. There’s a part of his brain that for some reason doesn’t accurately compute situations right leaving his brain to protest again and again: _Danger, danger_.

He grips the present a little too hard but doesn’t want to ruin it. Somehow this gift needs to survive its journey to his mother’s, but he can maybe spare some time to purchase something new if tragedy befalls. Only she’s expecting him soon. But anxiety rings in his brain, it swells up with its warning: _Danger, danger_.

Danger grabs his shoulder, whirling him around with one loud grunt of a **Hey**. It’s Owen right there. Shoving his shoulder as he glares at him. Malcolm’s stuck in fight, flight, or _freeze_ all over again at the sight of him. Whatever happens, he can’t fall back in time. It’ll let more danger sink in especially with Owen snarling at him right before so many people casually moving around on all sides. Not that anybody looks up and away from their holiday cheer.

“Malcolm Whitly,” Owen spits out at him. His boozy breath is stale, he’s not drunk but he’d been drinking for some time that day. So much anger is built up in those words, his name. _Malcolm Whitly_. “I always knew that you were a liar.” 

Anger is seething through Owen’s brain, it’s coursing through his veins. It’s as if somebody created him from the raw emotion itself. Even with being in the open and the world ready for Malcolm to run, he feels as if he’s stuck in a corner or stuck in a room like so many years ago, trapped. Trapped, trapped, trapped. He’s trapped in his tracks all over again with Owen sizing him up, volcanic and without any chance for cheer.

“And I didn’t recognize you till I saw your hand.”

Malcolm looks down, his handshakes. He covers his movement as if he doesn’t quake.

“You can change your name, but you can’t change who you are.”

The words slice straight through him. It’s enough of a push to start the slow fall, him falling out of the present and into the past. Then again, the past and present are always happening at once, two timelines wrapped up with one another, both of which he can’t escape, not at all. Trauma can turn anyone into a time traveler, but if only it were half as romantic as it sounded.

Malcolm clenches his teeth letting pain break apart his thoughts, _Don’t fall, don’t fall back, don’t fall, don’t fall out of time again. . ._

Except there’s two of him and two of Owen. A Young Malcolm stuck inside the Overlook again and again, it’s like he picks up the phone daily to make the call, all after the hotel got to him, his father that is so there’s him making the call about his father after he wants to hurt Gil then the local police showing up. 

Not that Colorado is halfway across the world, but it seems like it really does even with Young Malcolm there and here in New York City with Younger Owen who is all fury, more so then Now Owen.

Younger Owen with Young Malcolm inside a room with so many memories of his father moving at his fingertips across the table while Younger Owen demands: _**Tell me the truth. Tell me what you did. Are you Daddy’s little helper? You Know more than you are saying.**_ His words sped up, full of fire, nonstop. _**Tellmehowhedidit. TELLME!**_

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut, his jaw is cracking under such pressure as his headache grows. The ringing in his ears block all the cacophony New York. Younger Owen and Young Malcolm may be gone but he still has Owen to worry about in the present as he teeters off balance. Maybe he can fall into a car and let it break him away from the situation thanks to a necessary ride to the ER.

A small voice reminds him.

_Inhaaaaale. . ._

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

He doesn’t even make it to four out of the five seconds he needs and looks straight at Owen who’s keeping a close eye on him. But something about Owen has changed. The ringing’s too loud for Malcolm to parse through any of his thoughts. Maybe it’s for the better. He doesn’t want to really go there.

“I’m not my father,” Malcolm informs him, he shakes his head like it’ll get the ringing to start. It hurts, hurts his brain and his jaw clicks as he speaks.

Owen doesn’t laugh out loud but Malcolm can still hear it, his thoughts becoming either clearer or louder. Either way, there’s laughter. Owen points at himself, “Are you trying to convince me?” Then he points at Malcolm. “Or are you trying to convince yourself?”

Malcolm hangs tight to the present letting it weigh him down in _the present_ where he belongs. His jaw pops, pops, pops while Owen won’t shut up. He looks at the way the ribbon frays feeling the urge to pick it apart again.

“‘Cause if you’re trying to convince me, save your breath!” The last word Owen shouts, spittle sprays with each letter b-r-e-a-t-h. Each covered with the stale alcohol of Owen’s morning. He grabs Malcolm’s coat and Malcolm continues to hang there. His jaw pop, pop, popping in an attempt to breath. “‘Cause I was right.” Owen’s fingers dig into his chest. Feels as if bruises are already blooming there. Malcolm kind of, sort of, looks up at him while still avoiding eye contact with Owen to watch the fraying ribbon of his present. “There was someone else.”

_There was someone else._

_There **was** someone else._

_**There was someone else.** _

“But you always knew that,” Young Malcolm says while he’s standing off to the side, one step off the curb and watching the scene unfold. Malcolm glances at him, it’s more or less of an accident because Owen might be mad if he looks anywhere else. “You always knew there was someone else.”

Malcolm returns his focus to Owen finding words for the present. “I know why you’re angry. You dedicated your life to The Surgeon’s case.” He pauses allowing a moment to survey any change in Owen’s expression. “You were right.” 

He hesitates again even though Owen’s not really registered yet what’s been said for Malcolm to read. “I did know something. At the Overlook, my father had-had a person. . .who stayed with us and I forgot about him, but I have reason to believe he was or he is The Junkyard Killer.”

Some reason Malcolm keeps closing the space between them. His jaw is popping and his hand is quaking. It’s a lot, so much. “All I have are-are fragments of a memory.”

**_11/08_ : Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed.**

The past is back, intertwined with the present. Young Malcolm with a knife as he runs through the hedge maze sinking deep into snow with madness chasing after him. _My boy! Come on and take your medicine!_

**_11/08_ : Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed.**

Him trying his best to journal and to remember as he keeps falling through time and waking up, waking up, waking up in strange places. Yet with so many stories about death at his fingertips and ghosts whispering all about him. A woman who threw her children off the roof and hanged herself in the basement. A girl last seen in the elevators only to go missing. Mob violence as shooters took out a hit on somebody in a room. A man who lost it and annihilated his entire family because the hotel told him it’d be better for all of them. There was a man stuck inside a bear suit, he died of asphyxiation. A woman who slit her wrists in her bathtub and then another woman without a story who he found in a tub in Room 217. (Maybe he could’ve saved the woman he found in Room 217.)

**_11/09_ : Woke up in ballroom (?). Remember going to bed. Mother said something about taking a pill to sleep better. Don’t remember falling asleep.**

Owen is hanging onto each and every single one of Malcolm’s words. This is what he’s known and waited for all his life. It’s bouncing all around him as exclamation marks, Malcolm tries to ground himself into the present still letting his Christmas present weight him down.

**_11/10_ : Is it possible to not remember falling asleep but waking up? Feels like haven’t slept for days. Ask somebody about it.**

“Only The Surgeon and Paul Lazar know what happened. . .” The words are coming so fast. He can’t stop any of them now. They’re falling right in the open for anybody to collect but especially for Owen to piece through. 

**_11/11_ : Woke up in bar, heard music, heard voices. Father found me, we talked, said to talk to him, didn’t hear all the noise. Ask him about it later?**

Malcolm’s practically shouting at Owen. “. . .But my father is in solitary and when I tried to find Paul, the FBI kicked me off the case for being too. . .”

Before Malcolm can finish his own words, Owen butts in finishing his sentence for him. He knows, he knows, he knows. “Obsessed?”

**_11/12_ : ????**

Malcolm stares at him at such a loss. There’s nothing else to say because Owen said it all and he’s still saying it. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

“Unhinged? Making it personal?” All the anger of Owen has since peeled away, his hands dig deep into his pockets as empathy becomes him. Malcolm nods. “I kind of know the feeling.” They stop talking for a split second. Owen looks him up and down with a new emotion crossing his face, one Malcolm can’t quite read. There’s a softness to him. “Where are you in the Turner case?”

**_11/13_ : Woke up in bed. Last thing I remember, boiler room. Looking at newspapers. Then nothing. Is there something wrong with me?**

Malcolm sighs unable to make eye contact again. “We think the killer has something to do with one of his old cases, but we haven’t found anything yet.” Words that probably should have stayed locked up in his mind and not out in the open as puzzle pieces for Owen to play around with. But he knows, he knows, he knows.

Owen kind of smiles, it's a brief thought, a memory that’s just out of reach for him. Good thing he explains out loud though, Turner had a-a place where he kept everything that he didn’t want to release to official case files. I can take you there.” 

He means it, too. Malcolm doesn’t even know how to emote because Owen really means it, too. His brain is working its way already across the city to this location, ready to dig into some research to help Turner out, not Malcolm, but Turner. He huffs out a _Come on_ , which is so easy to miss. Maybe Malcolm imagined it or heard it in Owen’s thoughts because he’s already walking away forcing Malcolm to half walk-half run after him to discover the secrets Turner hid.

**_11/14_ : Woke up in the bathroom. Don’t remember falling asleep there, but I tracked mud all across the floor. There were leaves in my hair. I was able to hide my notes before mother found me in the bathroom. She was furious asking me where I had been and didn’t like that I kept telling her: I don’t know. Because I don’t, I don’t know where I was or where I went and I don’t know what’s happening to me.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now it's back to the past again! I'm hoping it'll be a little more back and forth unless that's too much? Let me know.
> 
> Anyway, if you're enjoying this pls let me know otherwise pls forever hold your peace.


	25. Twenty-Five: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are slowly starting to come together for Malcolm at the Overlook Hotel, for better or worse (it's going to be for worse).

# Twenty-Five

**Past**

**_11/14_ : Woke up in the bathroom. Don’t remember falling asleep there, but I tracked mud all across the floor. There were leaves in my hair. I was able to hide my notes before mother found me in the bathroom. She was furious asking me where I had been and didn’t like that I kept telling her: I don’t know. Because I don’t, I don’t know where I was or where I went and I don’t know what’s happening to me.**

Malcolm waited in the room hoping for everybody to be gone soon but Jessica appeared to be in for the long run. She was on the phone for some time, chatting with old friends or who he assumed were old friends. Whenever he met any of her friends there wasn’t anything too friendly about him, but then again, it wasn’t like he was good at making friends with. Maybe it ran in the family.

A few times Jessica paused in her conversation and looked at him. He laid there doing his best to fake sleep. Maybe she bought it or grew bored because after some time she was gone. Malcolm laid in his bed, he stayed on his side while looking at his last notes attempting to wrap his brain around what was happening.

His lungs felt all swollen and like rocks at the same time. Maybe if he moved a little bit too much to the left or right, it’d cause more damage. The timeline of the past few days felt destructive. Was that possible? Must be seeing how it was happening right then and there at his fingertips.

With Jessica gone and his brain finally talking himself into some movement, Malcolm sat up adding a new entry.

**_11/15_ : Woke up in bed. Father wasn’t here when I woke up. Ainsley wasn’t around, but mother was here and on the phone. I think I remember falling asleep here.**

Malcolm went to hide it under his pillow. His lungs still feeling swollen. Maybe it was allergies or maybe it was asthma. His fingertips brushed up against something and he pulled the pillow back to find a pocket knife present with a little note. Past him was smart, good for past him. The note didn’t say a whole lot other than what needed to be said.

_Yours. For protection._

But protection from what? Malcolm slipped it into his back pocket about to leave not knowing how to fight any of the surrounding ghosts. Each one posed a possible threat. Sometimes he was sure he could even hear them speaking in his sleep. Then again it was hard to tell because he couldn’t remember how or where he fell asleep (or passed out it sure seemed).

The halls are empty though. Empty of people, empty of voices, empty of the ghosts. He moved through them without any real direction while using the steps instead of the elevator where a girl went missing. He watched her look out and around as danger followed her but not danger caught on camera. There was no telling what horrors bit into the lives of people moving up and down them. Probably more than the elevators. Yet he heard nothing.

Malcolm left on a different floor finding himself again alone. Something tugged at his aching lungs, moving him forward over the gross floor of the place. Its orange and red shapes, such an eyesore. The only sound around was him. His feet scraping the carpet. His breathing. His heart pumping, louder than it should. His apparent new knife moving in his back pocket. 

Until there was another sound, a sound in front of him of one of the many, many, many doors opening up. Hinges with some rust. Needed oil or whatever it was that fixed doors. Even though he wanted to stop, he couldn’t. He told his brain to tell his feet to _stop_ , _stop_ , _stop_ , but he couldn’t. . .stop.

Room 217.

The door hung open and he held his breath, which somehow hurt his lungs more. To make matters worse, his feet continued. They weren’t about to stop either. It was as if ghosts were in the soles of his shoes. Forcing him forward. Before he could reach out and enter, a jarring noise knocked him over. One he couldn’t quite define. Sounded as if a chain were dragging across the floor. He looked up to find Ainsley there on a tricycle out of all the things in the world.

“What are you doing?” Ainsley blurted.

Malcolm’s hand was on the door, he was close to opening it but wait, it was open. He could’ve sworn it was wide open and he was there opening it.

Instead of finding an answer, he retorted, “What are you doing?”

“Learning how to ride a bicycle!”

“You can’t be serious?”

“Help me out?”

Malcolm shook his head and opened the door a little more except he let it go. He came over to his sister giving her a little push away from the room. This wasn’t a good place. It wasn’t a good place. He could hear the warnings straight through the door while the rest of them were noiseless. Ainsley didn’t notice, couldn’t notice, it wasn’t in her.

“I’ll be right back,” he called after her.

Happiness leaped around Ainsley’s mind as she rode her bike away. She shot him a smirk and simply said, “I’m free.”

Which meant Malcolm was back in Room 217, the door for sure wide open again. Inside the place was a mint green, which he couldn’t recall if it’d always been. A stark contrast to the red and orange of the hall. Malcolm moved his feet over its threshold into the room hearing a lost voice hum and old tune.

_I'll be seeing you, In all the old familiar places._

The music twisted through the air bringing him forward into the mint green room. Water swished in the bathroom where the tune emanated from. Chances were, Malcolm should turn around. He should turn around right away. He should turn away right then and there, but he didn’t.

_That this heart of mine embraces, All day and through, In that small cafe._

Unable to stop, stop, stop. . .Malcolm entered the bathroom even though that would be frowned upon. It wasn’t his room nor was it his bathroom. Except nobody appeared to be present. The walls were a whole shade of lighter mint green. He heard something scraping the sides of the tub but as soon as he took one step forward he heard somebody blurt out a _Help me_ , but if they did or didn’t, somebody yanked him backward.

Martin spun Malcolm around. The _Help me_ echoed in Malcolm’s brain while he looked up at his father unsure as to why he was shaking.

“Malcolm? What are you doing? You know you’re not supposed to go into any of the rooms,” Martin started right away, his voice pitched at almost a shout. Not the regular Martin he knew. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I. . .I don’t know? The door was open?”

“What are you talking about? Why would the door be open?”

Malcolm shrugged, racking his brain for answers, possible answers. “Your friend stays here.”

“My friend? What-What are you talking about?”

“J-J-John?” The name was lost to him. This needed to be a note. A note with the rest of his notes. “Your friend!”

The old tune rang true from the bathroom.

_The park across the way, The children's carousel, The chestnut trees, The wishing well._

“Your-Your friend who helped us with the wasp stings?”

_Watkins_ , Martin’s thought rang true but he said something else, “Gil?”

It wasn’t like Malcolm could correct him and go no the first so he shook his head.

_I'll be seeing you in every lovely summer's day. . ._

Martin steered Malcolm away but he made a poor attempt to dig his heels into the floor. He looked over unsure if the earlier _Help me_ continued to echo or he heard somebody in there. He did see somebody in there though. Yet he wasn’t sure. If maybe it was Martin’s thoughts or his earlier vision unable to register a girl lying in chains, lost in a bathtub with no way to shout but she tried her best. She meant what she meant. _Help me! Help me!_

“Let’s get some food into you so you feel better,” Martin said as he continued to steer Malcolm from the room. 

Malcolm leaned his head back a bit to look up at his father. _It’s not working. Why isn’t it working?_ Malcolm wanted to ask, _What?_ But couldn’t. Martin offered him an unsettling smile, which made him feel in more danger. Way more danger if his father somehow knew he was something else ( _not human_ ), and could read minds and see ghosts and who knew what else.

“Can’t have anything bad happening to my boy,” Martin said, marching Malcolm into the elevator. He closed his eyes almost wanting to pass out to make this all end. It didn’t. The doors opened like they usually did. Martin wasn’t finished moving him through the place. He led him into the large bar area, which was still filled with a cacophony of spirits. “Found him!”

Jessica and Ainsley sat at a set table as if they were about to eat a meal at home. Jessica sipped at very different spirits of her own. Ainsley was there picking at some baby corn on her plate looking as if she would throw up if anybody made sure she ate her vegetables today. 

“Found him wandering around in the rooms upstairs,” Martin said.

Jessica pouted. “Malcolm! You know you can’t do that.” She sighed but the moment didn’t prevent him from stopping drinking for too long.

Malcolm sat at the table with the ghosts all around them. Each of them chatting and enjoying their time. Somewhere a very different sort of old tune played. _Should auld acquaintance be forgot? And never brought to mind?_ In a weak attempt, Malcolm tried to shoot them all a look to study what they were wearing. Except Jessica put her glass down all while Martin disappeared to the back to bring out some more food.

“Is everything alright?” Jessica asked.

Ainsley continued to destroy her baby corn without eating it. “He’s afraid of the ghosts.”

“I’m not. . .I’m not afraid of the ghosts,” Malcolm said a little louder than her as if it’d counteract what she just said.

Both Ainsley and Jessica now watched him. “ _The_ ghosts?” Jessica looked between the two of them. “You are both too morbid.” Martin returned with two plates. One for himself and one for Malcolm. “Martin, these two are talking about ghosts! It’s this place. . .” She paused to give it a dramatic look as she pointed all around. “. . .It’s so grotesque!”

“I did hear there were a few ghost stories around here,” started Martin. He watched Malcolm though as if it were a one on one conversation. “I in fact heard there was one even in the room you were snooping around in.” _It didn’t work. Why isn’t it working? I need a better plan of attack._ “Before coming up here, I was informed a woman took her own life in that room.”

“Martin!” Jessica cut in. “Not in front of Ainsley.”

“What does that mean?” Ainsley piped up.

“Is she ok now?” Malcolm for some reason asked.

“No,” Martin whispered.

_Help me._ Somebody was up in the room and alive. For some reason, she was caught up in chains and lying inside a bathtub. As if he could see her, Malcolm looked up. Some back thought told him, he could find her, if he tried hard enough. He could find her with his own mind. Malcolm continued to sit there looking up letting all the noise around him fade out and again there she was _Help me!_

“Malcolm?” Jessica touched the back of his hand bringing him back. It was easy to read her lips as she asked, “Are you feeling alright?” Her words are all lost thanks to Martin’s loud, loud, loud thoughts of, _He knows._

No, the answer was no, but the answer for everybody listening with their ears at the table. It was instead, “Yes.”


	26. Twenty-Six: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's about to storm and Martin has a task for him and Malcolm to accomplish.

# Twenty-Six

**Past**

Malcolm held onto the knife from under his pillow. It’s a switchblade? A pocket knife? He wasn’t too sure because he wasn’t one to know a lot about knives. A snowflake ended up stirring him from such brief thoughts. He looked up while leaning into the banisters on the balcony by the hedge maze. The sky was dark. It wasn’t too dark out yet with the setting sun but more so because of the looming clouds above them.

At some point, he needed to figure out his father’s schedule. Needed to understand where he went and when so he could travel to Room 217 to see if somebody was there, ghost or living. Their distant _Help Me_ haunted him more so than all the rest of the ghosts who crossed his path with and there were many, many ghosts.

_MALCOLM. . ._

He turned to find not a ghost present but instead Ainsley who was still very much alive. “You shouldn’t go out there.”

Malcolm closed his knife. “How come?”

“Mr. Boots said it’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous.” Malcolm looked over his shoulder traveling between his present and the past where an Irish elk almost stepped on him. “Who’s Mr. Boots?”

“He’s my imaginary friend.”

First she had ghost friends and now an imaginary friend. It was hard to tell if one was more dangerous than the other. An imaginary friend was a whole lot different for him than her. He was psychic or had the _shining_ or however Gil put it where Ainsley was. . .normal. Malcolm tucked the knife into his back pocket. “Do you know where dad went after dinner?”

“No.” Ainsley also shook her head. “He’s mad.”

“Mad? Why’s he mad?” Malcolm studied her looking for any sign or image of what she meant. He left before anybody else did with an excuse for the bathroom. Inside Ainsley’s mind was Martin leaving, he walked straight past the twins who waved to her before following him, they whispered something to him. Some jealousy heated up because Martin said something back to them. Whatever it was or may be was lost to them all.

Ainsley shrugged in the present. “Don’t know why he’s upset.” She put a hand out catching a few snowflakes. They grew chubbier already and would start to stick out there. “I’m tired.”

“It’s late, you should go to bed.”

“You, too.” Ainsley took a few steps back. “It’s what the hotel said before dad left.”

“Sorry. . . _what_?”

Ainsley stuck her tongue out to catch some of the chubby snowflakes while chuckling. She held her palms up catching them, letting them melt there. Her thoughts instead changed to sparkles. A certain lit up joy from Christmas lights and the sad, sad, sad song of Charlie Brown. _Christmas time is here. Happiness and cheer._

“Ains, what were you going to say? What do you mean the hotel _said_?”

“That it wanted you bed or I guess in bed.” _Fun for all that children call. Their favorite time of the year._ “Do you think we’ll have a snow day?” _Fun for all that children call.  
Their favorite time of the year._ “Can people go sledding on mountains?”

“I have to. . .go. . .!” And Malcolm went to take off from the conversation with snowflakes chilling him to the core, they melted on his eyelashes and his hair. Behind him Ainlsey giggled, still singing to herself.

_Olden times and ancient rhymes. Of love and dreams to share._ “MALCOLM!” He paused before peeling away inside to look at her. Ainsley frowned. “Why are you leaving?”

“I’ll be right back, I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Alright.”

“Just. . .! Be careful! Don’t go into the maze!”

The glitter shattered as if ornaments struck the floor. Ainsley stared at him, lowering her hands. There were only shadows and _?!?!?!?_ trapped in her brain at the slight idea of the hedge maze. Except she knew nothing of what was out there. He did. He sure did.

“I would never.”

“Thank you. . .” Malcolm made it inside, he was inside the lobby which swallowed up all the coldness of the oncoming snowstorm. He looked around finding the place all empty. Not a ghost, not a shadow, not a person inside. He stopped, his footsteps echoed, bouncing all around him, off the floor and the walls.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Ainsley’s thoughts were lost and he greeted the brief silence of the hotel. It felt as if cloth wrapped up his brain. He could hear a faint heartbeat. Malcolm closed his eyes listening to the floors above him, his fingers tapped his thighs as he inhaled slowly and exhaled hoping to find either the voice yelling _Help Me_ while searching for a sign of Martin. His thoughts were always subtle. More like whispers.

Whispers in corners. Only there were whispers in corners. Ones that crawled toward him while he stood in his same spot building a model of the Overlook in his mind as much as he could. Only Martin wasn’t popping up nor was he hearing _Help Me_ from the girl he thought he spotted in Room 217.

The corners spoke up some nonsense. _Redrum._ But then somehow he pulled a layer back finding the twins who looked out a window at Ainsley on another level. _Come play with us forever and ever and ever._ But the walls were rude all over again, breaking into his thoughts. _Redrum._ And even though Ainsley’s voice softened with the closed door, he could hear her and her singing, _Oh, that we could always see. Such spirit through the year._ And back to the walls, _Redrum, Redrum, Redrum_. The woman downstairs snapped out a curt whisper, _Maaaaaalcolm!_

“MALCOLM!”

He spun around while the walls continued to warn him something, some sort of nonsense he couldn’t break through, the code made no sense. _Redrum, Redrum, Redrum, Redrum._ Martin was present. He stood there with his toes touching Malcolm’s and a hand on his shoulder. 

“Malcolm? Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for each other,” Martin asked him.

The walls spoke faster, _Redrumredrumredrumredrumredrumredrum_.

_How does he know?_ “Can I talk to you for a second?” Martin asked.

_Redrumredrumredrumredrumredrumredrum._

“Ok.” Malcolm nodded while he attempted his best smile.

_Redrumredrumredrumredrumredrumredrum._

“What are we going to talk about?” Malcolm asked. “Do you need help with the salt?”

Martin patted his shoulder. “I do! If you don’t mind. We want to make sure the loop out front is driveable in case there’s an emergency.” _Where did I go wrong?_

“I need to go grab my coat, is that ok?”

Martin smiled. “No problem.” He steered Malcolm away from the spot though, and not toward the elevator but instead a staircase that looked larger than life. “There’s a lot I need to grab, as well, to make sure we’re safe out there.”

_Redrumredrumredrumredrumredrumredrum. Murder._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the present after this for a huge whump.


	27. Twenty-Seven: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm joins Owen Shannon to look through old case files about the Junkyard Killer.

**Present**

The world’s a murky place. There’s nothing black and white about it yet somehow Malcolm’s out there always trying to still piece it all together into a larger more concrete image. It’s full of murky rules and murky happenings and sometimes the world’s murky because water vapor grows too thick thanks to a cloud touching down into the ground. Doesn’t seem right though to have headlights beating down fog on a Christmas night in New York. Fog needs it to be humid and the air is too dry, the sort of dryness that makes your nose bleed.

Malcolm watches Owen put the car in park. Owen’s so busy trying not to look at Malcolm. They’re wedged between buildings full of people’s wanted and unwanted goods. Full of people’s secrets. Back to the murkiness. 

_You shouldn’t get into cars with strangers._ It takes a lot of power to not look. Malcolm can barely recall the last time he heard his imaginary friend. Chances are it could be years ago or moments ago. 

Either way, Tommy’s back again.

Tommy’s sitting in the back seat putting pressure on Malcolm’s headrest. Owen’s avoiding eye contact as he shuts off the headlights and unbuckles. Grabs his keys from the ignition with Malcolm watching his every move while his imaginary friend warns him again and again. Tommy’s always been right about his warnings, too.

_You shouldn’t follow him. It’ll only bring danger._ For a moment, Malcolm uses the rearview mirror to see Tommy there but it’s him, young him. It’s always been young him though. Young Malcolm who once was Old Malcolm compared to how Young Malcolm was when he first started having premonitions. _Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back._

No going back. Malcolm watches Owen leave the car without a word forcing him to climb out without sparing a look at Young Malcolm.

_Please don’t. Don’t!_

Still, Malcolm climbs out of the car shutting the door as if it could turn his brain off. “What is this place?” he asks right away. 

Owen’s leaning down pulling a brick from the ground. There’s not a window for its use, that’s if his use is to break inside the place in front of them. He’s busy bringing Malcolm somewhere but at least he also provides answers. “Turner was a private guy. He liked the quiet out here.”

“. . .You’ve been here before?” 

Malcolm’s keeping an eye on Owen, trying to steady his breaths. You’re supposed to inhale deeply while counting to five to help with anxiety. Or is it seven? Or maybe it’s another number. Malcolm flinches as Young Malcolm pounds on the windshield from inside the car. Young Malcolm’s carrying such a fast beat. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. He’s screaming the whole time and it’s not like Malcolm needs to hear what he has to say word for word because he knows. He knows.

_Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back._

It’s the question and not the sounds of the shining that stalls Owen. He has keys in his hand and his fidgeting with a lock. He looks at nothing, maybe he can see memories of his own. There are some flooding his brain. They’re blurs though. So many blurs of tumultuous times. 

“Not in fifteen years,” whispers Owen as he continues to fidget with the lock. There’s no issue with it. His hands tremble. It’s a little warm for a winter night. “We were partners. We used to come and work out here sometimes.

The lock clicks, it slides open with ease. It’s frequently used. Young Malcolm continues banging on the windshield as he screamed into the window. Steam creeps across the glass. And not once does Malcolm move, his hand isn’t even trembling as he watches Owen move to the next step of opening the door before them.

_Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back. Please don’t. Don’t!_

Owen looks at Malcolm who moves forward as he hauls the door upwards leading to a garage. Some reason Malcolm walks past Owen, he pauses to peer at him as he holds open the door. Not a word is exchanged before the two and Malcolm slips right into the building.

_Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back._ Young Malcolm never stops screaming and pounding on the windshield. He could try and open the door.

Malcolm’s heading inside more and more only for metal to scrape behind him. Owen releases the garage door for a moment, he’s coming inside and drags it shut. Darkness collapses on them and Young Malcolm’s shouting is lost, it’s lost outside with his banging on the windshield.

_Please don’t. Don’t!_

Electricity hisses, it flickers hardly allowing shadows to retreat. There’s a blue hue to it and it almost sounds like those mosquito zappers some people have hanging right outside their doors. Malcolm is standing in the middle of the garage surrounded by archival boxes. It’s Owen’s turn to watch him. Malcolm pays no mind to the boxes or Owen as he watches the ends of a sheet flutter up, it’s covering something large, something that’s not archival boxes stacked up on each other. He means to take it one slow step at the time. Instead, he trips up, moves forward too fast, and almost crashes into whatever the sheet hides and pulls it off.

Crime scene photos decorate a board. Puzzle pieces are spread across it, Turner tried to fit them together but these puzzles aren’t so easy. There’s no edges to find and plant. Instead, there’s photos all across them including recent images from the junkyard where they found _bodies_ , _bodies_ , _bodies_.

Malcolm snaps his attention to Owen who’s trying to not look so startled. His jaws slightly ajar and Malcolm touches some of the images on the board. “Why-Why was Turner looking into the Junkyard Killer?” Maybe he should’ve listened to Young Malcolm. He shouldn’t have followed Owen inside because now it’s too late to turn around and return to the world before. “He never even worked on The Surgeon Case?”

Owen’s already turned on another light bringing some warmth to the room. He’s looking through a folder of some sort. He glares at Malcolm. “Yeah, but I did.” And it’s back to the flipping of the pages in the book. Malcolm leans back against a desk, he crosses his hands in front of him watching Owen, analyzing his words and movement. “These are all my files from 20 years ago.” _All of them._ Owen slams the folder down on top of a filing cabinet. _Can’t believe him. All of them. Twenty years._

Puzzle pieces are surfacing in Owen’s mind as he turns his attention at the photographs on the board. He stares right at images of a younger Malcolm, walking home and another candid shot of him. There’s a post-it note that simply says “Malcolm Whitly” and it’s underlined twice.

“I always thought there was more.” _He knows. He had to know. Bet he knows._ “Martin must’ve had a cleanup man, but my higher-ups. . .” Malcolm again is stuck on Owen, trying to analyze but there’s a lot fluttering through his thoughts. His hand quakes and he needs to stay present, not fall out of time again. _All of them. Twenty years. I knew it. I knew it!_ . . .” closed the case. . .” Owen’s eyes are bulging as there’s overstimulating thoughts circulating all throughout his mind. _There had to-There had to be more. Twenty years._ “They called it a day.

Malcolm’s leaning forward into each of Owen’s words almost lost in between the spoken and the silent ones. “You kept digging.” It’s obvious on all levels but the old papercuts on Owen’s hands from researching still sting.

“Uh, hell yeah, I kept digging.” _Here. All of them. Twenty years. There had to-There had to be more. . .He knows-He knows something. That look. Look._ Owen sinks into the seat he’s on. “I was blackballed for my trouble and by the time Turner showed up, I was pretty well spent.” Words scraped his throat as thoughts continue to fluctuate. Owen snags his flask out of his pocket, shaking his head. _Turner._ “You know, he-he-he put up with me until. . .” 

Malcolm looks away, he looks at the board as if he’s studying the images but he parts from Owen’s mind as best as he can. There’s puzzle pieces but private memories as well. The pain of them still clenched up in the pit of his stomach. Daggers in the intestines. 

“He put up with me until-until he couldn’t and he gave up on me like-like everyone else did.”

There’s a faded snapshot. The sort of a polaroid aesthetic. Owen’s shaking his head trying to loosen it from the front of his mind. But it’s him at a bar, he’s sitting at the actual bar, mulling over another shot of whiskey, it’s burning his throat, tells himself it’s clearing his sinuses, somebody taps his back and he turns to see Turner there commenting on how it’d go down better if he grabbed a bite to eat before asking, _Wanna go grab some pizza?_

“I don’t think he did,” Malcolm whispers looking back at Owen to give him full attention but to also analyze, analyze, analyze. Malcolm points at some of the images on the wall and the archival boxes waiting around in the dark. Even his brain is almost stuck on the same repeat as Owen. _All of them. Here. Twenty years._ “Turner did all this for you.” 

Like anybody, there’s some of Turner left behind. Memories spread all about everywhere. 

“When the news about the Junkyard Killer came out, he must’ve dug up all your old case files.”

Owen curls into himself, he attempts not to and to hide it. There’s him at the bar again, him drinking at the bar again, him stinking up the bar again, this is different though. The bar’s barely open because the sun’s still out, people are casually walking by and there’s a tap on his shoulder. His nerves feel so deaden he almost doesn’t feel it until he hears it. Turner’s behind him simply saying, _Owen. . ._

“He was trying to clear your name.” Malcolm takes a few steps toward Owen.

Some semblance of silence enters the garage. Owen’s mind hits a sound, an emergency broadcast sort of sound as he sinks into the seat biting down on his fingernails. There’s not much of them left, his cuticles instead start to bleed. The emergency broadcast carries on for a second, two seconds, three seconds longer before his hand falls from his lips.

“Damn it,” Owen whispers. _Turner. All of them. Here. Twenty years._ “Damn him for being a good guy.” He never takes a swig from his flask as he stares down at his feet and the steady beat of overstimulation bearing down on his brain. _All of them. All of them. All of them. . .Turner._ Owen’s breath hitches, he’s close to possibly shedding a tear and he tries to take in one long steady breath and it’s back to the bar the first time. “For being my guy.”

“You and Turner were in a relationship,” Malcolm says as he continues to study Owen.

Owen comes close to smothering himself again. His fingernails still bleeding. There’s more hitches in his shaky breath. “I-I spent ten years hating him for ruining my career when all he was trying to do was save me from myself.” The flask in his hand feels more like the morning after, the taste of vomit burning his mouth and nostrils. “And-And now he’s dead. And. . .And I-I just want him to know that I. . .I just want him to know that-that. . .”

Emergency broadcast erupts again and Owen chucks his flask across the room. _People not like us. They’re too good._ And Owen’s sinking again while Malcolm pats the air knowing he should comfort and he should help him, but it’s hard. There’s such discomfort in emotion yet emotion intrigues him. So much emotion is left behind along these walls.

“He knew,” Malcolm whispers as he attempts to make eye contact with Owen. “All this, all this was because he believed in you, Shannon.” Malcolm picks up the folder Owen had been looking through for emphasis. He pages through it only something catches Owen’s eyes and stills his mind as he zones in on it. Without moving much, Malcolm pauses catching this silent drift.

Owen snatches something from the folder blurting, “What?” He’s staring at the paper, staring at it, the puzzle pieces are all into play. “Turner was hunting down my suspects.”

“You had suspects?”

“Everyone I thought that might be helping Martin. If there was a stone, we turned it over.”

Energy causes Malcolm to bounce about, he’s twitching warning to get his hands on the papers Owen holds. Owen gets up coming closer to him as he is staring at those names.

“Now don’t get too excited.” Owen makes sure Malcolm can see as well. “Each one was a dead end.”

Malcolm looks up trying not to grin. There’s so much energy, he might bounce right out of there. “Not if we compare them to my list.” The words almost slur together, he’s talking so fast. “The Surgeon met The Junkyard Killer at St. Edward’s Hospital and we narrowed it down to a possible 50 names.” 

The words are still sliding together. Malcolm whips around to take off and grab what he needs. There’s banging outside the garage door. By the way Owen follows him, it doesn’t appear Owen can hear it. Instead, it’s gotta be Young Malcolm out there shouting his same warnings again and again and again.

_Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back._

“So if the name is on both lists. . .” Owen comes up beside Malcolm ready for research. They’re standing with more light. He spreads the sheet of names out and Malcolm pulls out his phone so he can show his list. Owen snaps up, he almost accidentally headbutts Malcolm. “No, no, no, no, no, no. We don’t get to be so lucky.” _Twenty years_

“It’s not luck if it took twenty years.”

Malcolm lowers his head to study the names. Owen is teetering off balance as he gawks at Malcolm before getting to business. There are names to list and names to reject. Owen saying one, “Wade,” only for Malcolm to go, “No.”

“Waits?”

“No.”

“Walker.”

“Nope.”

The pounding on the garage door increases, but Malcolm’s too hyper-focused to even give Young Malcolm a second thought. Besides, what else is he going to say other than: _Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back._

“Watkins.”

The name snaps like a brittle twig, a warning when you’re walking through the woods. Malcolm looks up forgetting how to speak for a second. He’s on the edge of falling out of time. There’s Malcolm squinting at a man trying to dig through his thoughts only to find nothing, nothing, nothing as the man kept them so tied up and private. The man made jokes. The man made apologies. The man said, _”John Watkins, a friend of your father. Told me I could stay here if. . .I helped with this place.”_

Without a no following, Owen looks up and Malcolm finds words again, “Watkins! Uh, John Watkins.”

Owen’s breath rasps as he releases one long exhale. “Holy hell, I remember John Watkins. He was a really strange guy.”

All the way back then and in the past, back at the Overlook as life too often happened, Malcolm added no comment while he watched this John Watkins unable to remember a time he heard his name. For a person who could hear the spoken and unspoken, it seemed weird he had no idea who this stranger was standing in front of him. And John Watkins went on as if not a single oddity was apparent.

“He used to work swing shifts at the hospital.”

Malcolm glances at his information. “I have an address! It’s twenty years old, but still!”

Both Owen and Malcolm chuckle. They pop up ready to make a run for it. Malcolm gets the lights as Owen hauls the garage door back open. All along Young Malcolm stands there banging his fists on the metal. He spots when it’s no longer within reach. Owen holds the door open waiting for Malcolm to make a move, but Malcolm almost trips over himself. Startled by the fact Young Malcolm watches him so closely and with such silence.

Malcolm does his best to scurry past Young Malcolm, but Young Malcolm’s fingertips brush across his elbow. Malcolm watches as he continues toward the car. 

Young Malcolm stares him down. _But you already knew all of this all along. Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back._ He wasn’t ever speaking of the garage and what they’d find. The door comes down with a racket. Owen talks but his words are gone. Malcolm is stuck looking at Young Malcolm. He wasn’t ever warning Malcolm about the garage but instead-instead, something else. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is so long and so bad and took so long to be posted. I live in the US and am so so so stressed but was happy to return to this world for a bit.
> 
> Anyway, if you're still here and enjoying this. Please drop a comment and let me know otherwise if you hate this, please forever hold your peace.


	28. Twenty-Eight: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Overlook Hotel turns on Malcolm.

# Twenty-Eight

**Past**

The Overlook Hotel ticked with an indescribable malice. The word _malice_ was one Malcolm only knew dictionary definition wise. 

**Malice.** _Noun_ : Desire to inflict injury, harm, or suffering on another, either because of a hostile impulse or out of deep-seated meanness.

And all he had was a little knife to protect himself.

Whatever made its ghostly heartbeat caused it to beat faster while Malcolm left their so-called home there to step down the hall. Jessica informed him, _Your father is waiting for you in the lobby_. She took a sip from a wine glass and returned to looking out at the chunky snowflakes that fell around them.

Malcolm’s footsteps were soundless. The carpet devoured any possible creak of the floorboards underneath. He gradually moved forward but worse, the hallway kept stretching on and on and on at such an unusual length. If only he could turn back, but it was hard to turn back when you’re already in it.

There weren’t any living guests inside the hotel, and for the first time, Malcolm realized how loud the place was at all times. It became such white noise to him. The consistent murmurings of so many who-knows-what behind the doors. None of them whispered. None of them murmured. None of them screamed, _Redrumredrumredrumredrumredrumredrum_ , any longer.

Either Malcolm’s feet or his own heart fell into the rhythm of the hotel’s pulse. Underneath his feet somewhere the boiler was in charge. It ran this place. Not any of them. The carpet continued and continued and continued with Malcolm never seeming to near the elevators until he did. He paused looking at them. Somebody was using them. It ticked, ticked, ticked away at the floors rising already up from the lobby. 

Maybe it was Martin.

“You know he puts you to sleep,” two voices asked in unison behind him. “But you’d rather live a lie.”

In the reflection of elevator doors, Malcolm spotted the twins Ainsley called friends. He didn’t need to face them and yet he did. In the reflection, they were whole but when he turned around neither girl stood close to him. Instead, their bodies were crumpled and broken on the floor. Their blood fed the walls thanks to their father’s ax.

The elevator rang and Malcolm whipped around catching his breath. Anxiety caused his body to quake. He waited for the doors to open seeing the twins were whole again.

“Don’t go,” said the one twin and then the other said, “Or you should. And together again, “Then you’ll get to play with us forever and ever, Malcolm.”

The doors opened and somebody who wasn’t his father or his sister or his mother was inside. A woman in a beaded dress stood inside, she giggled with a glass of overflowing champagne spilling onto her feet. She looked like those women from the 1920s who called alcohol hooch and snuck out to dance while they drank because the laws told them not to.

Her curls were a little loose, falling from a feathered headband. She stumbled out of the elevator and kept it open for Malcolm who stayed standing. “What’re you doing here, chap?”

Malcolm said nothing.

“Don’t you got a parent somewhere around here?” She looked around. "Children should not be left alone to their own devices. Oh, the dangers you'd find."

“My father is downstairs.”

“Oh? Alright then.” She looked at the numbers in the elevator. “Well, then looks like I’m stuck for another ride.” She stepped inside keeping the door open for Malcolm who inhaled deeply and joined her there. He struck the lobby button and the 1920s woman fell into a corner with her giggling fit. “Want to hear a good story?”

Malcolm only glanced at her. It was his way of saying, _No thank you_.

“Twenty-three they claim, but we all say, 'There's got to be more.'” She started to sing in a nasally, slurred voice, “The first was young Alexis Scott, she tried not to let him in; he stabbed her with a corn knife, that’s how his crimes begin.”

The elevator bell ran forcing Malcolm to get off on the bottom floor. In front of him, a single bear waited on its hind paws. He froze almost risking the doors to crush him to death. The bear struggled to decapitate itself only to reveal a man underneath who shook his head while looking at Malcolm. The woman on the elevator continued her giggling. She held the door open and Malcolm got off as the bear made his approach.

The bear and the woman sang unable to keep a tune, “The next was Sharice Baker, so old and tired and gray, She fit off her attacker until her strength give way.”

But the doors closed taking their voices to another floor and Malcolm stood in one loud lobby. For a place empty of the living, the dead sure liked to scream. Their voices at all different volumes. He gradually turned, all his weight on his heel as he looked out not making out many people there. The place looked empty but the chatter was very, very real.

Conversations split between ghosts and some other singing as well, _The next was Lyla Thompson, A-settin’ by the fire’ He crept up close behind her and strangled her with a wire_ was interlaced with _Go walking through the valley, Go walking through the valley, Go walking through the valley, As he's done before. . .Watch out, he’ll steal you, too._

“Are you coming Malcolm?” Martin shouted from by the large windows that overlooked the hedge maze. Malcolm pulled his coat closer to himself to feel a little warmer. “It’s looking bad out there, we need to hurry up.” And Martin looked across the lobby at Malcolm. A lot of seemingly empty space separated the two of them. The lobby and all its faux marble. _He knows. How could he know? He knows._ “Ready?” _But what if. . ._

Malcolm’s feet were rooted by the elevator that continued to tick, tick, tick away from them. What’s worse? The quiet or all the noise, noise, noise? The Overlook Hotel was loud tonight. Louder.

“I’m not going to ask you again, Malcolm. I'm going to need you to hurry.” An edge entered Martin’s voice, an unfamiliar one. He often spoke softly and laughed a lot whenever he was with his family. But some sort of shadow crossed his expression. One Malcolm could both read and not read because while he could actually hear his father’s thoughts. None of them made sense. _Gotta find out how he knows. How’d he find out? Why isn't it working?_

Time to go then. Only Malcolm couldn’t find it in himself to move at a regular pace. It was painstaking and probably caused Martin to roll his eyes. Hard to tell from where Malcolm stood, all the way across the lobby. Martin did exhale and shake his head.

Malcolm grasped at some distant, distant thoughts even among the ghosts chatting away. Martin glanced back at the windows. _Pain. Inflict. Most agonizing way to kill someone. No. Not him._ And Martin even said it out loud, “Not him. You don’t understand.”

Less conversations among the ghostly hotel occupants happened, they melted into something, something else. _He took their lives, stole them from their families, and now he’lll steal you, too. He’s already tried._ Malcolm dug his fingernails into his palm looking at his father and watching his father standing there with somebody else in the lobby. Not the mysterious friend who loomed around them but the shadow of a person. _But you knew that. Didn’t you? You knew that, too? He tried to steal you. You wrote it down so many times._

_Extra, Extra. Read all about it. **Father uses Chloroform: Attacks a His Son for Learning About the Woman in Room 213**_

The distance between Malcolm and Martin wasn’t much by the time Malcolm spotted her. She did her best to stand, her bones all bent and crooked. Maybe it was her thoughts or maybe it was her voice. Didn’t matter how she said it because Malcolm could hear her and hear all she had to say. “You have to kill him. You have to. Destroy him. You need to. You have to.” She floated a gaze in Malcolm’s direction as he still stood in the lobby with his fingers tearing into his skin. And Martin looked at him, too. “He knows too much.”

Martin shook his head. _How? I don’t understand how?_ He locked eyes with Malcolm. “But he’s my son,” he whispered to the crooked woman. She should’ve stayed in the boiler room but it wouldn’t matter. Martin went down there several times a day. He had to otherwise the whole place would blow. “We’re the same. I love him.” _What am I. . .What do I do?_

The shrill ghosts shut up but somebody else joined their conversation. Behind Malcolm, Martin’s friend reentered the same. “All I was able to find was Pabst Blue. . .” He trailed away, eating his own words. _Perfect_. Malcolm didn’t want to give the man any of his attention. “I see that Malcolm’s here now. Ready?”

_Oh. Oh. No, no, my boy._ Martin watched Malcolm and Malcolm could feel John Watkins’ stare burning into his back. _How’d he. . ._

But the walls of the Overlook agreed with the crooked woman, which wasn’t fair. Walls weren’t supposed to talk. These did. They slurred about murder, Malcolm’s murder. Walls weren’t supposed to want either but they wanted (no, needed) him dead, which was also unfair. 

With some unknown energy, Malcolm barrelled forward. He did his best to run forward. All he needed was to get out, he needed to get out, maybe Martin, too. The shrill ghosts howled around them. They scratched at him as if he were charging through thorny bushes. Fingernails ripping at his clothes and his skin but he never stopped especially as the walls begged and confusion rolled through Martin’s mind and behind him were the heavy, heavy footsteps of his father’s friend chasing after him and coming close to catching him, but Malcolm slipped through a door first. He burst outside letting the ice forming on the ground propel him forward where the man face planted. 

It was the headstart he really needed, he deserved more, but life was unfair. That was obvious. Inanimate objects and the ghosts wanted him dead. Malcolm stumbled down a few broken steps heading toward the hedge maze. The cold was violent enough to stab straight through his coat into his bones. Still better than the indoors. Entering the mess out there, Malcolm pushed forward, he squeezed his eyes shut before giving his best shout, “GIL!”


	29. Twenty-Nine: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm and Owen follow their only lead on the Junkyard Killer.
> 
> It won't end well.

# Twenty-Nine

**Present**

There are enough lights out in the yards to make a person wonder what the electric bill looked like every December. Malcolm trails behind Owen glancing at glimmering candy cane, sparkling snowmen, and blinking Santas. _Christmastime is here. Happiness and cheer._ Own gets right to business. It’s not like he’s a cop anymore and the split second of distraction is gone. Malcolm hops up onto the stoop of the house before them where Owen’s knocking and it’s time to wait to see what they may or may not learn about the Junkyard Killer.

It’s getting cold. _You’ve been colder_ , Malcolm tells himself. It means nothing. He rubs his hands together to let some friction heat him up.

Owen smirks at him. “Smile, kid. This is the fun part.” 

But Malcolm doesn’t smile. He looks at Owen’s feet instead while keeping his hands together. It’s hard to smile when you have words such as, _But you already knew all of this all along. Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back_ , on the brain.

“Don’t worry.” Owen leans forward, he’s chuckling as he reveals a concealed weapon. “You were right before, it’s not registered.”

“Oh, well, in that case. . .” Malcolm tries not to roll his eyes because how is that supposed to provide any comfort (and it’s so cold).

Owen goes back to knocking on the door only for Malcolm’s phone to go off. It’s tugging at his attention and he pulls it out of his pocket to see what’s up. Hopefully, it’s not Jessica or Ains calling to tell them how disappointed they are in him. Except it’s neither and he picks up, turning away from Owen like it’ll help create a more private conversation.

“Gil. Hey.” If he really wants, he reaches out to Gil himself through the shining but Gil couldn’t reach him. Made the world a little more lonely. Behind him, Owen’s still banging on the door. There’s no telling how many miles separate the two but some panic leaks through the phone from Gil. I got a lead.”

“So do I. Macy didn’t do it.”

Figures, figures. Malcolm nods even though Gil can’t see him or hear his present thoughts. There’s not much to read other than the annoyance of Owen still knocking on the door. Not at Owen but the mystery of if this lead is worthwhile and a consistent noise of any sort is easy to dislike.

“So the frame job and the murder were two separate crimes,” Malcolm says hopping right into too many thoughts even with the knock, knock, knocking. “Turner was investigating The Junkyard Killer. . .” It’s enough to get Owen to stop with one subtle _What the fuck_ as he glances at Malcolm. “So maybe, maybe. . .”

The thoughts are the same for Gil. His surprise hangs in the air, distance can’t change that. He even blurts into the phone, “Wh-Wh-What?” _Where are you, Bright?_

“Maybe he found out Turner was on his case.” There’s no stopping Malcolm, the words might as well be word vomit because they keep coming, no questions can stop him. A little too close to the truth so he follows him to the hotel. . .”

_Bright, where are you?_

“. . .Didn’t expect him to be there with a sex worker but who cares, he’s there to kill a cop and he’ll happily throw in Emily, too.”

Even though Owen’s listening, he keeps up the occasional knock to not let their progress die.

“Wait, wait. . .” _I’m not asking you again, where are you, Bright?_ “Are you saying that our murderer is the Junkyard Killer?”

Malcolm’s grinning, not that Owen nor Gil can see him. His back is still to Owen and there’s the distance to consider. But still. It’s hilarious, isn’t it? “We were working the case this entire time.” Cosmic humor bringing them together.

Before Malcolm can get out more words the door explodes open behind them with a woman grunting, she’s full of an odd sense of fury. “I may be blind but I’m not deaf.” 

Malcolm faces her and maybe the odd sense is more than how upset she sounds because, beyond spoken words, there’s a lot of silence around her. There’s been other times Malcolm has faced such a silence. It’s an odd one where the rest of the world let’s you realize how busy it’s been all along from the buzzing Christmas lights to passing cars with their music floating on stereos.

“What do you want?” A tinge of sadness bites into her words because maybe she likes being alone? Maybe she’s not alone and wants to be with people. It’s impossible to tell.

“I-I got to go.” Malcolm hangs up real fast in order to join Owen.

Before Malcolm could cut off the call, he heard the ghost of Gil shouting, “Bright. . .Bright?” _Damn it! Bright!_

The woman has the door partially closed on her as she leans out facing them. “Unless you plan on singing, get off my front step!”

 _Shit, didn’t think this far ahead. . ._ Owen’s grumbling in his thoughts without a plan.

Malcolm hops right in, there’s a lot more energy than he needs right now. A jitteriness that takes over and he needs to shake it off. “Uh! Merry Christmas! We’re looking for John Watkins.” What appears to be confusion warps the woman’s face as she listens to Malcolm. Not an extra word or a hint to what’s going on inside her head. “Do you know if he used to live here?”

Only a smile bursts on her face. She chimes, “My sweet John! Of course, he did! How did you know my grandson?”

There’s something sweet yet poisonous about the way she speaks. It gets to Owen first, he’s there gawking at her unable to connect what he wants to think about. Malcolm’s not sure either. He’s hanging onto the words he told himself before, _You know if you go in there, there’s no going back_.

Owen’s looking at Malcolm for help and the lie happens so fast. It’s hard to tell who thought it up first. Malcolm admits, “We’re old friends.” Then again, maybe it’s not necessarily the lie he thinks it is. Owen has no idea.

The woman lets them inside the claustrophobic house. The sort that reminds one of hoarders. The woman collects little porcelain angels and skinny candles. There are crucifixes hanging from all the walls. She insists on food for them and leaves Owen and Malcolm alone to the eyes of God watching.

A broken radio spits Christmas songs at them, _Said the night wind to the little lamb, Do you see what I see? Do you see what I see?_

Malcolm’s taking it all in, smiling the whole time as he looks at all the gauche figurines. So many are faded from years of too much light. Across the room, Owen’s shaking his head. Malcolm’s still shaking from all the energy built up inside him.

“Why are you smiling?”

“This is John’s childhood home,” Malcolm comments as he moves a little closer to Owen. Cutting the distance so their voices don’t carry too much. He’s pointing at everything around them. “That’s, like, the Holy Grail for profilers.”

_Do you see what I see? Do you see what I see?_

Malcolm can’t focus on one thing, Owen included who’s just gawking at him by this point stuck on _?!?!_. “Serial killers aren’t just born, they’re made.” He moves closer to the mantel place letting Owen’s _?!?!_ grow louder. Malcolm comes so close to touching the little angelic statues that watch over them. “And John was made. . .right here.” Rather than touch, he takes a step back taking in the sights. The regular decorations speak volumes. “Religion played a prominent role in his development. It impacts the way he kills. His messianic mission.”

There’s more than angels but other images of the Christian faith hosted by the house. All gathered to judge them and every other person to walk in front of them.

_?!?!_

“There are clues everywhere,” Malcolm lowers his voice looking beyond the room the stand in. The whole house is a museum. 

The curation of John Watkins' past.

As Malcolm’s looking, the woman interrupts them. Her voice is a bit shrill, it cuts straight through the radio spitting Christmas tunes at them and Owen’s thoughts. “I thought I told you to sit.” The first few words sounded as if they were in trouble, but maybe she means it out of hospitality. She rounds a corner near a little table with plates in her hands. She starts to set the table for them.

_Do you hear what I hear?_

Owen shakes his head, he takes off his jacket. Malcolm stays in his long coat. They plop into seats at the dinner table to find old TV dinners there. The plastic still on. It’s all moist and hard to rip off with the food making unsettling sounds underneath.

 _You’ve got to be kidding me. . ._ Owen frees his food.

Malcolm wrinkles his nose as he listens to the woman speak. “Just remember to peel back the plastic. Sometimes I forget.”

While Owen wrestles with his meal, Malcolm picks up a fork. He’s staring at the table as he speaks. “Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Watkins.” Owen says nothing. He shakes his head. This leaves Malcolm to keep on talking. “We were wondering, uh. . .if you’d seen John recently.” Malcolm looks at his food, it’s as if it's melting and was never meant to be eaten.

“Oh! It’s Matilda, please. Now, how did you know my Johnnie again?”

For the first time, Owen talks even as he’s digging into his meal. “We worked with him at St. Edward’s.”

Malcolm glares at his food, his hands sink to his seat and he sits on them as he waits. He comes close to adding the bit about the Overlook and maybe he did say it out loud. Hard to tell. Owen gives him a look but Matilda’s smiling.

“He always said he made good friends there. Ah, everyone loves John. I raised him to be a good boy.”

Malcolm ends up pushing his food a bit away from him. The thought of eating upsets his stomach just something about it messes with his head. Not necessarily this meal, but all. Like times he’s at home reminding himself to eat over and over again then unable to do so. 

“Were John’s parents around when he was a kid?” he asks.

Matilda chortles. “No father that I knew. Least of his worries, though, with that mother.”

Owen’s watching Malcolm not eat, maybe studying how he reacts to Matilda’s story.

“She was a sinner!” Matilda spits out. “FILTHY _whore_ till she died. Chose HEROIN over her own _child_.” Matilda’s squirming in her seat with the fury ready to burst through the seams of her pink clothes. “You WANT his real _mother_ , you see ME!”

“That must have been hard,” Malcolm comments, the sort of tone saved for condolences.

Matilda’s sitting up straighter, she folds her hands together. “God doesn’t put us here to do easy things, son, just right ones.” She scoots a bit to face Malcolm. His food sits there untouched, collecting the cold. Another brand new edge cuts into her voices. “Would you like something else?”

This leaves Malcolm looking between her and Owen and the food and food he’d rather not eat. Anxiety clenches in his stomach, he lifts his hands for no real reason, doesn’t do anything with them. He kinda just flutters around for a bit as he tries to answer her. “No. I’m. . .It’s fine.” He ends up grabbing a fork and holds it with both hands before letting the fork touch the food.

“Guests in this house deserve better than fine,” Matilda comments. A kindness returns. The hospitality of it all because if it isn’t there then there’d only be guilt. She’s already climbing from her seat. “Sit tight!”

Off in the kitchen, Matilda sings some old song. Malcolm can’t really make it out. He’s cleaning to his fork for dear life.

Owen leans forward whispering, “So he lost his parents young. I mean, that’s rough. But Grandma, she’s not bad. . .” He trails off looking at his food. “Could learn to cook, maybe.”

Malcolm’s shaking his head and clinging to his fork. “It’s all here. In Matilda.” He keeps his voice low, as well. It’s easy to tell Matilda is in the kitchen, still. She sings her song. “John targets people on the fringe because of what she made him believe as a child. That his mother was a sinner, that addicts are evil.”

The singing stops and footsteps approach. Matilda returns with a can in hand, she starts to splatter gravy all over Malcolm’s food almost hitting him a few times. He scoots back while Owen keeps going Oh, Oh, Oh and Matilda hums, “Here you go.” Owen cracks a joke that is so easy to miss. Malcolm sits there unable to touch the table any longer or look at the food without the idea of throwing up.

“Uh, Matilda, do you have any photos of John? We’d love to see him as a kid?” Malcolm talks still with his hands up, ready to flutter with nowhere to go. Grandparents loved showing off photos of their children and grandchildren.

On cue, Matilda hops up all smiles and nods. “I do!” She springs off into another room and brings back a scrapbook with roses on the cover.

Fades photos are inside. Clipped into the pages. Meant to stay. There’s sometimes words beside them pretending to describe people and places and events.

“Who’s Benjamin?” Malcolm points at one not quite able to get a good look.

“My husband, he was good to Johnnie. Pushed him to be his best but my poor Johnnie had to watch him die. Benjamin was working on his car in the garage and like a bolt of lightning straight from God, the car fell and CRUSHED his head. _Horrible_ accident.” She keeps turning the pages leaving Malcolm and Owen to exchange a look because that’s a lot, a lot to take in about John Watkins. “And this is his first communion.” Matilda stops showing off pictures of John Watkins. He’s there in so many of them, faded images tuck in place with little informational tags yet in all of them his face is gone, scratched out of memories.

And Matilda continues on bringing them on a tour of John Watkins’ faceless life as she smiles and exclaims, “Family. Is. Everything.”

There’s not just faceless photos of John Watkins but a postcard of The Overlook Hotel as well. It’s not alone. Instead, it’s hidden on pages all too familiar to Malcolm. There’s the missing girl who was last seen running down a hallway, images of her in the elevator with the timestamps in the corner. 

**11:05; 11:06; 11:07; 11:09. Then L,E looked out at 11:11.**

And close to her is a photograph almost unrecognizable. It’s from a magazine, it says **Last known photograph of Alexie & Alexa Grady** but their eyes look gouged out. And with them, the saddest part of their story: **Family Annihilator**. Their father destroyed them all.

Articles about the woman who threw children from the roof of the Overlook before she disappeared herself, found hanging in the basement. Salacious photos of the crime scene are cut out and pasted there.

The worst is ripped up pieces from a journal found their way inside.

**11/08: Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed.  
** 11/09: Woke up in ballroom (?). Remember going to bed. Mother said something to sleep better. Don’t remember falling asleep.  
11/10: Is it possible to not remember falling asleep but waking up? I feel like I haven’t slept for days. Ask somebody about it. (Would Gil know? Where did Gil go?) 

**11/12: ????**

Malcolm looks away. This world is full of memories, and memories are no different than ghosts. They’re always lurking around corners waiting to haunt you.

Owen’s still looking through the scrapbook shaking his head. “They’re all the same. He knew if Turner was onto him, that people would come looking.”

“So he made sure we wouldn’t be able to I.D. him when you did.” But that’s not wholly true, there’s evidence left behind just for Malcolm to know and no one else in the world. Still unable to look down, Malcolm glances up. Matilda left them again, but she’s close. He ends up whispering right to Owen. “See if you can find out when he was last here. I’m gonna take a look around.”

Even as Malcolm goes to get up he spots the page all about the Overlook and ends up changing it catching sight of one last entry.

**11/13: Woke up in bed. Last thing I remember, boiler room. Looking at newspapers. Then nothing. Is there something wrong with me?**

Matilda scurries back into the room as Malcolm is half out of his seat. Owen returns to his food looking at a new page of photographs.

“Matilda, can I use your bathroom?”

Matilda halts. “MAY I use your bathroom! Poor grammar is just a short walk to delinquency.” She returns to her smile and hangs onto the back of her seat looking ready to dance. There’s no way to understand her beyond what she says. Malcolm gulps, he watches her not wanting to move and not wanting to look down and catching sight of his own ghosts. “And you may. It’s the first door at the top of the stairs.”

Malcolm peels himself from his chair, he never takes off his coat, he keeps in on like it’s normal to wear one to a private bathroom. Owen’s stuck at the table with Matilda and Malcolm turns into the dark, dark house. He looks up the steps, they twist around, out of sight. There’s no decoration on the walls here. He needs to stay present, he needs to stay present but it’s so hard whenever the Overlook comes bearing down on his shoulders.

Thoughts of a not so lost past where he lost memories to chloroform and woke up half remembering all the times he found Martin in the basement or another corner chatting with the walls and almost unseen ghosts. Such hungry, hungry ghosts. They waited to feed on anybody passing through. 

Matilda’s radio continues to spit out its Christmas music providing a backdrop that hides the voices in the kitchen of her and Owen chatting.

_Ding dong ding dong, That is their song, With joyful ring, All caroling._

Malcolm inhales, he counts his breaths trying to ignore the lyrics and the encroaching thoughts. Of the girl in Room 217 who still haunts him, asking him to solve her death as if it were a riddle. Of him walking into the room after pushing Ainsley forward on a little tricycle, the big wheel sort meant for the insides of a building. He entered the room hearing her sing a song that would forever remind him that he’d be seeing her as she’s stuck inside of the tub inside the room.

_One seems to hear, Words of good cheer, From everywhere, Filling the air._

The house groans underneath his weight as he moves up to the second floor. Up there, the lights are off forcing him to use a flashlight to guide him through the curation of John Watkins’ past.

_Oh how they pound, Raising the sound, O'er hill and dale, Telling their tale._

Only crucifixes grace the walls. There’s no personal images up there and at least the angel figurines remain only downstairs. Malcolm avoids the bathroom with a half-remembered dream of the girl in Room 217. Instead, his light catches a vanity license plate at the end of the hall and on a door, the sort you buy in gift shops.

 **John**.

Jesuses watch him steer clear of the bathroom as he enters John’s room. He pushes the door open glad it doesn’t whine on his hinges. Somewhere downstairs the radio continues to play and hopefully, Owen is learning something. There’s no telling what’s hidden up here in the murkiness of disuse. Malcolm shines his light around the room. There’s a single gold plated cross above a twin bed with two lights beside it. No decorations. Nothing to define what John once loved. Behind him, another Jesus watches from a framed image. There’s a long mirror capturing Malcolm and the wall with the crucifix above the bed, it reflects it back at him.

He moves forward peeling back at the threads of abandonment in the room. Dust falls like fog. Nobody’s wanted here. There’s a closet by the door and a lock on the door capturing his attention. It glints thanks to his flashlight. Malcolm walks to it, he’s hesitant though. Careful to make as little sound as possible because he’s of course in the bathroom.

It's too big of a lock to put on a closet and what closet has a lock? Malcolm touches it regretting, he uses his other hand to hold the flashlight and open the door finding a place for chains on the floor. All around are scratch marks, as if something past and present is trying to get out. Malcolm runs his hand over some of the scratches on the door finding himself listening to another time and another place. There’s no more carol of the bells but a sobbing child who begs. He can feel splints burring underneath his nails, ready to make them pop off. Sometimes fingernails litter the floor. They grow back, they always grow back to be lost again. 

Malcolm releases the door and the memory, as well. He’s back in the present, almost.

Somewhere across the city, Malcolm can almost hear Gil shouting for his attention. Others are also starting to ask, _Where is Bright right now?_ And Gil’s furious his answer is We don’t know.


	30. Thirty: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Malcolm fights for his life.

# Thirty

**Past**

“MY BOY! Where you going?! You can’t. . .MY BOY! COME AND TAKE YOUR MEDICINE!”

For a split second, Malcolm really thought it was Martin coming after him. It was all rather confusing. Snow kept splashing up in his vision along with leaves springing off the hedges and into his face. Behind him, there was more than one person yelling. It was hard to say if it was all the ghosts, the ghosts between the walls or the walls themselves shouting after him.

But whoever kept yelling after him, “MY BOY! COME AND TAKE YOUR MEDICINE!” Was very real and was very close and was very loud with the way he ran and chased after him. John Watkins, right? Wasn't that the name he said or had it been another one? Lies occurred strangely in his brain between those in the know. Sometimes the lie was so good it became reality and sometimes it was so bad, he never learned the lie. Either way, his father's friend chased him down out there the enormous hedge maze. All sorts of monsters walked out there and he brought in an additional one.

Some faded memory almost knocked him off his feet. Malcolm looked both ways to see where to go, he arrived at forking path after forking path after forking path. Yet he kept choosing at random hoping he chose right although the maze continued to eat him up. Still, the memory crept on him because there wasn’t something right, not something right, which he’d known all along. By known though, there was a lot of slippery mystery to it. But he'd been writing it all down.

He wrote it down all along.

He'd been trying to calculate it and lost some truths between the lines.

The memory was like a drowned image, not too clear, but they were the missing pieces to all he’d been writing down.

**11/07** : Malcolm heard somebody whispering for help, telling him he had to help her. He rose up from his seat in the library and left to go see. Somewhere around Room 217, he touched a the door, toyed with the lock, it open right up, but before he could enter something creaked out in the hallway. He looked over to see Martin standing there with a huge smile.

“Malcolm, what did I tell you about going into the rooms?”

Malcolm released the doorknob.

“Come here, you need to go take your medicine.”

Malcolm started to follow him almost tripping up on the idea of medicine because he couldn’t remember there ever being any. But before he could form a question it felt as if he were drowning. Something touched his face and his vision blurred and blurred and blurred until. . .

**_11/08: Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed._ **

Something stirred in front of Malcolm causing him to pause because once again he has options to choose from. He’s lost in a garden of forking paths. Whatever moved encouraged him to redirect his path but it was hard to tell where it was. Something was ahead of him and something was behind him and he had no idea which forking path was the right forking path. One threat was human but the other. . . 

**Later in the Day on 11/08** : Malcolm froze up on the steps to the boiler room. It was pitch black down there and he hoped the darkness would eat him up. He meant to look through some information but heard a humming. Though this wasn’t a ghost humming. Somehow he managed to recognize the sound. Underneath one of the steps, the crooked woman scrapped her hands across the wood. 

She whispered to him, “Maaaaaaalcolm? Maaaaaalcolm?” 

“Malcolm?!” The humming stopped and at the bottom of the steps stood Martin. He held onto a flashlight looking up at Malcolm. He’d been listening to music down there, whatever it was only whispered. “What are you doing down here?” 

Malcolm eyed the boxes down there without saying anything, at first. Then he lied, “I was looking for you." 

“Where’s your mother?” 

“Upstairs.” 

Martin stepped up onto the bottom step. It creaked, louder than the whispering crooked woman. _Maaaalcolm, Maaaalcolm, it’s time to take your medicine._ Still Martin smiled and Malcolm summoned his best smile. 

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.” With that, he came up to Malcolm, put an arm around his shoulders. “It’s dangerous down here. You shouldn’t be here.” 

“What-What were you doing down here?” 

“I have to take care of the boiler otherwise it’ll blow up this hotel. It’s dangerous.” Martin replied as he continued to lead Malcolm away from the room with the crooked woman still whispering after him. _Maaaaalcolm._ “More important, what's happening with you? Why aren't you in bed?” 

“I couldn’t sleep. . .” Malcolm whispered while looking over his shoulder thinking about the humming and the box of news articles, but most important, the boiler was on the opposite side of the room than from where he heard the humming. It was darker than dark on that half of the room. Whatever Martin been doing was lost, lost to his memory as something came over his head. It felt as if somebody pulled a pillowcase or a blanket over his whole face. One second, he was stepping upward and the next he was falling backward losing whatever happened next because. . . 

**_11/09: Woke up in ballroom (?). Remember going to bed. Mother said something to sleep better. Don’t remember falling asleep._ **

Oh shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot! Malcolm sprinted forward taking the path to the left. No reason to why he chose it, but somehow it felt right. Maybe if he let intuition guide the way, it’d help. It’d help a lot. He was better connected to this world than most. 

_GIIIL!_

Gil didn’t answer him and Malcolm almost tripped over his own feet. He stalled without a new path to choose and looked back at the Overlook Hotel. A lot of lights were left on. It looked ablaze in the night while its walls continued to sob, it sobbed for him to come back. The snowflakes were falling harder, a lot of them were getting caught up in his hair and his eyelashes. His mother and sister were still inside with death literally crawling around each and very single corner. 

_Gil?! Please!_

And he caught a brief response from Gil, _What is it, kid?_

The momentum of Watkins’ movements shattered his thoughts, any connection he could keep. The man crashed straight into him, burying him in the snow. Its coldness broke through any semblance of safety. There wasn’t any place to run. Nowhere to be safe. The cold hurt, the impact of a person throwing him to the ground hurt, everything hurt. If Gil had anything else to say, it was lost to the shining. And whatever was going on in John Watkins' head was lost to him as well. There wasn’t anything, nothing, he couldn’t hold onto a single thought inside the man’s brain. 

Malcolm tried to punch the man. His hands flailed all around, he kept punching hitting Watkins in the chest and the shoulder and it wasn’t helping him at all. His elbow caught the side of Malcolm’s face as he went to grab onto something. Either from his person or something, he dropped. More pain. Malcolm did his best to wriggle upwards and out, to start running again. 

With one hand, Watkins managed to keep him pinned there. Malcolm continued to sink through the snow in their scuffle. The icy ground bit his back. With one hand he let go of the idea of punching and remember the slight semblance of safety he had. Pocket knife. He had a pocket knife. Before Watkins could get whatever it was he wanted, Malcolm somehow found it in him to use the knife. He dug it into Watkins’ side. The blade seemed to pop as it shredded skin and whatever it was underneath. It nicked something hard. 

Watkins screamed. 

Malcolm sobbed. 

No longer holding onto the knife, Malcolm moved. He abandoned it in his attacker. Watkins rolled over looking at his wound and instead of going along the same path, Malcolm sprinted toward the Overlook. Its lights still on and the building still grinning as it watched him. Watkins choked on curses as he laid back there on the ground. Malcolm took a few different turns within this garden of forking paths to get away, to get far away, to get as far away as possible. 

Some roots tripped him and Malcolm face planted, right back into the snow for him. Though his hand stained it red, it splashed up as one of the topiary creatures walked. Its feet digging into the ground. Malcolm laid as still as possible letting the snow eat up any sobs that escaped. The creature moved right past him, never noticing him. Death was here and around every path and every corner. 

Malcolm scooted up looking at his hand. He tried to rub his palm in the snow hoping it’d wash it clean. But it didn’t. Of course, it didn’t. Frozen water, that’s what it all was after all. He kept on trying listening to the creature move as far away as possible. His skin reddened more and more as the cold nibbled on his skin. The brownish red of blood stayed there though. 

Snot clogged his senses. With his less bloody hand, he tried to wipe his face and crouched there. It was hard to tell if it was safe to move. Then again, the answer was no. The whole place was brimming with such danger. Somewhere he was pretty sure somebody was screaming or shouting, but it could also just be the wind. They were stuck in the midst of a snowstorm. 

_Listen to me, Malcolm. . ._ It was Gil again, but he wasn’t around. Malcolm looked. He shrugged a little closer into the hedge maze letting branches scratch him up. Better than sitting out there in the middle of the path. There was still Watkins out there who was wailing in pain wherever he left him. _Before anything happens, I need you and your family to get downstairs into the lobby, find somewhere safe to hide. I’ll be there as soon as possible._

Snot bubbled in his nose. He pulled back further into the area right beyond the forking paths. Just the garden part. A slight silence fell upon him. The snow tried its best to soak up what sound it could. It helped hide his sobbing, but so did his knees, he curled up there, staying out of sight. But people die of the cold all the time. He’d need to still run and get inside. It wasn’t safe in there and it wasn’t safe out here. 

_What if something already happened?_

Whatever connection he clung too was all faded like walkie talkies that were separated too far. There was static in the shining. Gil wasn’t close enough to them yet. Distance was hard to define. Gil said something else, but it was lost in the static. Worse though, the branches in front of him started to move. Malcolm pulled his legs closer to himself wondering how to become invisible. 

“Malcolm!” Jessica gasped. He looked up to be sure it really was his mother standing there. She yelled to somebody in the distance. “Over here! I found him!” 

Martin walked up beside her, he smiled at Malcolm. “Whatever has gotten into you, my boy?” He shook his head as he moved forward. “Let’s get you inside before you freeze to death.” All of Malcolm’s joints felt frozen already, they popped as they moved with Martin struggling to get him out. All Malcolm kept thinking to himself was _Resist, Resist, Resist_ and Martin was forever stuck on, _How’d he know?_ “We wouldn’t want that to happen now.” 


	31. Thirty-One: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, Oh no, Oh no no no. . .Malcolm's in trouble.

# Thirty-One

**Present**

Colette’s still upset over Malcolm. Both the thoughts in her head and her words out loud match up. “Your boy’s been working my case this entire time?!” She has every right to be upset, too. Just Gil isn’t sure how to approach such anger while dealing with other issues--intuitions--at hand. Colette is looking all around shouting, “Where is Bright?”

The problem with the shining is always knowing when something isn’t _right_. Dani stands behind Colette looking from her to Gil as Colete continues to ask. “Where is Bright? WHERE IS HE?” 

Truth is. . .none of them know. The way Dani’s staring at Gil, she makes it clear she realizes this is an absolute fact. Nobody knows where in the world is Malcolm Bright. Doesn’t take a mind reader to see that.

Yet Gil admits the truth out loud. The way Colette’s staring him down suggests she already knows. Some part of Gil is sure because she has inklings of the shining. Something she probably noticed or never really cared about. She knew it was a gift, but not the sort of gift. Gil huffs. “We. . .don’t know. . .”

Dani and JT are staring at him trying to stay as stoic as possible. To them, what’s their to fear? Malcolm Bright’s the kind of person you say no to and he yells back _yes_ and does precisely what he shouldn’t.

Those three words pretty much shatter the moment and while there’s some distance between them and he has no idea where in the world Malcolm is, he’ll figure it out, he’s always been able to figure it out. Even when the moment seems too dark to make light of. 

_Come on, Bright. . .BRIGHT. . .!_ Dani, JT, and Colette are all staring at Gil as some minor fury builds up. Hard to say at what though. Is Malcolm at fault for just running off like that? Is it his fault for not being able to pinpoint Malcolm? Is it both or something else altogether? “I’ll-I’ll get ahold of him, just give me a moment.”

### 

_**BRIGHT!** _

Malcolm’s shuffling his feet away from the world upstairs at the Watkins household. Matilda is humming along to some Christmas carol Malcolm can’t quite make out. There’s too much energy brimming inside of him. Too much to analyze and too much to think about and then his phone starts to buzz as he scoots back into the little dining room area. He’s looking at it to see Gil’s calling him but he rejects the call.

“No phones at the table, Mr. Man,” Matilda calls him out in such a sing-song way.

There's no comfort in that.

Malcolm pauses as he tucks his phone away. Owen is still sitting at the table no longer interested in the so-called meal Matilda prepared for them. Malcolm offers up his best smile the sort that probably screams, _I hope they like me_ , whenever meeting parental units. He slowly sits back down unsure of what the next step should be. This would be a lot easier if he could sense more about Matilda instead she’s only darkness.

Matilda carries on letting Malcolm sit. She returns to her rambling, which is good, has to be good. “Now, John, he was a quiet boy. Very observant. _Watchful_.” There’s immense pride in this last word. She continues talking, “He spent hours in the garage with Benjamin.”

Only it’s hard to pay attention when your heart is beating too fast. Malcolm feels the iciness of anxiety expunges all possible thought from his mind. He’s reaching for a fork but there’s blood pooled up across the table. Even if they sat around eating rare steaks, it wouldn’t look this way. The blood’s almost black and on plastic covering it. Malcolm follows the trail only to find Owen leaning to the side, he’s all crooked in his seat. Of course, he’s not eating with his throat slit. He’s trying to speak, but there’s no more words coming out.

Just Matilda’s words fill the moment with Christmas carols serving as a backdrop. It’s easy to miss them, it’s easy to miss what she’s saying. Owen’s thoughts are fractured light. There’s broken memories and warnings unable to from as they spark and spark and spark in his mind.

“He was interested in the way things worked.”

Malcolm blurts, “John’s here.”

“JOHNNIE IS HOME?” Matilda chimes forgetting to continue with her dribbling words on whatever topic she rambled on about. Matilda hops from her seat. Her mind is like a cavern, you’re unsure to how deep it could go or what’s really down there. Something is. Something dangerous. Malcolm’s stuck watching Owen fade with his fracturing lights. “Just in time for pie!”

Malcolm snaps his attention back to Matilda. He’s still there at the table. He’s still next to Owen who’s dying. Bloods pooling across the table and Matilda’s full of joy. That much is clear. Nobody else tries to reach out to him. The doors not too far from where he sits, he can run out there but something about Matilda’s rambling captures his attention. Holds it more than the chance of escape. _Garage_.

The facture lights go dark. Owen falls from his seat and Malcolm finds himself speaking up again. Close to some sobs. He didn’t like the man but that doesn’t mean he wants him to die. “No. . .No. . .!” Malcolm falls from his seat as well. His knees pop as they strike the ground and he’s grabbing onto Owen. “No. . .No. . .”

Matilda’s bouncing around, she lifts her chin and continues with her shouting. The sing-song nature of it underlies all of her words. “Jooohn, my dear! You forgot one.”

Blood’s smearing across Malcolm’s hands as he struggles to remind himself, it’s too late for Owen. He can’t stop the bleeding, the bleeding’s going to stop on its own now that he’s dead and gone. He’s barely looking at Matilda and registering her words. She knows. She knows. She knows. This isn’t-This isn’t. . .This isn’t what?

Even with Owen still dead and gone, Malcolm attempts to save his life. Anxiety is rearing its ugly head, his eyes bulge as he takes in the silence of Owen. With one of the napkins, he presses it into Owen’s neck like that’ll help, that’ll help save the dead. Some deep back thought laments, _Gil’s going to be so mad_. Not mad about Owen. Not made about ignoring his calls. But so mad at him for being-for being-for being so. . .

The napkin soaks up so much blood so fast. It’s everywhere really and Malcolm’s turning feeling his own anger tremble inside of him. His hands are shaking as he goes to face Matilda. Not just his hands. The forks and food left on the table tremble as well as ice in Matilda’s drink strikes one another creating a unique ringing sound.

“You-You knew! You called him!” _You only have yourself to blame_ , a separate thought laments because it’s true, it’s true. He has only himself to blame for Owen’s death and Gil’s fury and now for his. . . Matilda snaps her full attention to Malcolm while he loses touch with Owen. Some of the Jesuses on the walls start to tremble as well. He’s even causing this world to quake in fear, but it’s quaking, it’s simmering, it’s about to splinter because of his own fear. “Where is he? Where is John?!”

“ _MY_ JOHNNIE! MY JOHNNIE TAKES OUT THE _TRASH_!”

Malcolm stays crouching there afraid to move because maybe he’ll cause something to physically break then there’s a bump outside. Some movement as well. Matilda quiets down and he spots a shadow moving across the window. Whoever it is--John--is out back. _Garage_. It gets Malcolm off the floor, he’s slowly rising up as everything around him shakes. A Jesus paint does crash to the floor. His doing. Nobody else's. The glass breaks.

“HERE JOHNNIE!” Matilda’s screaming so loud and Malcolm’s left half risen and spotting the gun Owen carried. He’d been proud (maybe that’s the wrong word) about it, too, like it’d save their lives. Malcolm takes it and knows what he needs to do. _Run. Garage._ “HE’S IN HERE! JOHN! HE’S IN HERE!”

Time to try. . .something. . .Malcolm goes to chase after a shadow as Matilda spits out more words. “He’s gonna get you.” She’s hissing and dangerous but doesn’t lash out. Doesn’t need to because John Watkins is. 

Malcolm’s got a gun, he has a gun to protect himself as he runs to the door, slows down as he exits the house. Somewhere down the street normalcy continues. There’s Christmas lights strung along so many yards like the sky threw up on them, spewing stars out onto the ground. Somebody plays music loud and maybe they’re even outside even though it’s chilly. He can clearly hear their voices and laughter chatter. Music ties them closer together with such promise of holiday cheer and there’s a dead man so close to all of them.

_God rest ye merry gentlemen._  
_Let nothing you dismay._

The door almost hits Macolm on the way out.

He holds up the weapon.

He tries to swallow some potential bravery, but his mouth is all dry.

Energy thrums through him. The building up of anxiety, stress, fear, and a whole lot of other emotions. All while people join in their casual Christmas carols and laughter.

_Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas day._

Somewhere out there, Gil’s still shouting for his attention like if he yells Bright even louder and louder Malcolm’ll hear him and respond. Like Malcolm isn’t responding. Another narrative is caught on the wind. All a sudden. It’s as if everybody Malcolm’s ever loved is fighting for brain space as he tries his best to focus, focus, focus on his present. Jessica’s out there thinking, _Direct the narrative_. And he wants her to know, he’s trying but he needs to focus as he approaches the garage that’s out back. Matilda’s inside and she’s laughing, there’s nothing for her to even fear. Ainsley is in shock, or at least, she will be, she just doesn’t know it yet.

Malcolm attempts to use the music as control.  
_To save us from Satan’s pow’r._

But Satan has nothing to do about it. Malcolm almost loses his own breathing as he comes closer and closer. Somehow hearing Jessica louder than loud in his head as his mother pleads with some people. _As you may know my husband. . ._ Louder than even Gil who hasn’t quite yet acted upon the fact he can’t get through to Malcolm.

_. . .psychiatric hospital for killing twenty-three people, but I believe there were more. . ._

Malcolm manages to inhale deeply, he can’t count the seconds or countdown to know he can accomplish something. He’s rounding a corner keeping his weapon trained and ready to fire, for protection. 

_Fear not then, said the Angel.  
Let nothing you affright. . ._

Malcolm’s rounding to the back of this garage finding a door open. There’s some fallen tables out there. He looks at the ajar door almost falling out of time and back to the Overlook where Room 217 waited, it was always waiting for him. Behind him glass shatters and car alarms start blaring. Little garden figurines tumble over and he’s still present though, he’s still present, he’s still present and he’s staring at that open door.

Ainsley’s out there muttering to her own self not realizing how loud her own thoughts are. Maybe it’s just they’re all bound together and bound to another person, a shadow in their lives. _You’ve got to be kidding. . ._

Through some broken lawn ornaments, Malcolm walks closer and closer to that open door.

“J-J-John?”

If they met face-to-face, would he recognize the man as somebody he used to know? For somebody who’s haunted by so many memories, there’s so many he forgets. They’re drowned photographs, some of which are all because his own father is to blame.

“I-I know you’re here.”

It’s so dark inside the little garage out back, it’s looking fairly empty. Malcolm does his best to stay on edge, to stay present, he won’t fall out of time, and he won’t try and be with others. Instead, he’s here and now and he’ll stay here and now until Gil arrives to be angry at his mistakes of the night.

Something inside quakes, but so do Malcolm’s hands. He doesn’t spot anybody in there and almost lowers his weapon. But the quaking increases and a shadow burst forth and straight into him. _John. . ._ Not that Malcolm can tell or has time to tell.

Malcolm's punched in the stomach and knocked off his feet.

The ground comes up so fast and it’s so cold. Not Overlook Hotel cold. But doesn’t matter, it still hurts.

It really hurts.

Malcolm chokes on a half sob-half grunt. Trying to bite back pain, Malcolm’s on the ground still and he’s-he’s-he’s feeling too lost to-to do. . .

He rolls his head to the side realizing John’s there, he kneels down from the shadows and a light in hand. Already John’s grumbling, “We have to stop meeting like this.” 

He repositions his flashlight letting Malcolm get a better look. Drowned photographs all over again. Malcolm raises his head a bit trying to get too good of a look at John Watkins because he knows him, he knows that face, he knows him. 

“Remember me?” John chuckles.

Malcolm’s looking at him, the wind’s still knocked out of him. He manages a whisper, a threat of sorts, “They’ll find you.” It’d be easy, too, he’d just need to reach Gil. . .

_G. . ._

John Watkins grabs Malcolm by the collar of his shirt and partially hoists him off the ground. Any intended thoughts stall. Malcolm stares at the man still recollecting some of a past life he forgot. Maybe memories don’t haunt him enough. John’s laughing at Malcolm’s come back, shaking his head, his grip tightens on Malcolm’s collar as if he’s going to strangle him.

“They’ll never find us where we’re going.”

_________________________

Emptiness.

Malcolm gawks at John with only a few clear words and by a few it’s two and those two are _us_ and _we’re_.

Before he could ever manage any other life-saving technique, John punches him in the face. And just like that. . .Malcolm’s gone again, he’s falling back, and he’s not falling even out of time. He’s just. . .unconscious and a crumpled mess on the floor of the garage. John takes him by the ankles and tugs at Malcolm then drags him straight out of there to follow through with his own threat, _They’ll never find us where we’re going._

### 

Dani’s watching not much outside her car window. They’ve been driving around for how long now? Her heart feels a little swollen as bad thoughts keep chirping inside her mind. Worst-case scenarios all honing in on where in the world Malcolm Bright is. She tries once again to reach his cell. There’s a secret hope that they’ll laugh later about all the missed calls.

Her call goes to voicemail again and she flips her phone screen down on her leg so she can’t see it. Gil’s driving. The siren’s wailing letting people know there’s an emergency. Most people with emergencies know where to go. 

“Bight’s still not picking up,” Dani whispers.

Gil’s trying not to look at her because 1. He’s driving and 2. He knows Malcolm’s not going to pick up. It’s as if the kid tumbled into a black hole. There once was Malcolm, a little blip of brightness out there he could find and now he’s just gone. 

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Gil mutters and he drives a little faster. They’re still directionless, but it eases his anxiety. Dani’s, too. The faster they go means they can keep on keeping on as soon as they figure out his whereabouts and speed to the rescue. 

It wouldn’t be the first time Gil rushed in to save Malcolm, but that time, he heard Malcolm cry for help and he knew right where to find him. It was easy.

The Overlook.

### 

Leave it to Malcolm to show up when he’s needed. All night long, Ainsley’s called Malcolm or text Malcolm only to come up with nothing. Leaving her alone to take long, long sips of wine and so does Jessica as they glare at one another at the dining table. It’s as if they’re in a drinking contest, see who could drink who under the table. But it’s more than that. There’s spite threading through the air around them and an empty seat for Malcolm. He’s not there when Ainsley needs him and Jessica needs him. Both of them need him to argue their very valid points. Looks like Christmas is going to be a silent night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Another super casual but huge THANK YOU if you're still here and reading this because I can't believe I finally made it this far.


	32. Thirty-Two: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And everything is really about to start happening now.

# Thirty-Two

**Past**

“MALCOLM! What happened to you?” Jessica blurted. It was a lot harder to miss the damage once they reached the insides of the Overlook Hotel. Ahead Martin continued walking forward, he headed toward the barroom without looking back. All the corners hissed as they entered. Jessica stared at Malcolm’s bloody hands. “Where are you hurt?”

Jessica knelt in front of him and Malcolm said nothing because while he had the vocabulary to tell her what he did, it didn’t feel like he did. Those words felt all funny. Jessica touched his cheeks, they were all scraped up, but that wasn’t where the blood was from. She knew that though. She had to. Jessica even muttered the same question again and again about to search for another 

“Mar-Martin!” Jessica yelled and looked over her shoulder while Malcolm stayed quiet with his hands outstretched. “Where did he. . .”

A scream distracted her though. It was far enough away that they couldn’t see what was happening. Either way, it was Ainsley, which couldn’t be good.

Jessica looked at Malcolm awkwardly patting his shoulder as she stood up. “I-I. . .Hold on.” As she headed after Ainsley, she yelled again, “MARTIN!” She disappeared up the steps following Ainsley’s cries for help.

Malcolm continued to stand in the same spot. The coldness melted off him and yet the chill of outside still hurt. He never lowered his hands while he kept them up. There was no sign of his father. It was clear where his mother went and the walls were yelling, yelling, and yelling at him. 

Until silence. . .

He stabbed somebody.

The blood was clearly on his hands.

He stabbed somebody.

He stabbed somebody.

Not just somebody, but his father’s friend.

He stabbed his father’s friends.

Something slammed into the windows behind Malcolm. He screamed and leaped forward about to duck for cover. For some reason, he yelled out loud that time around, “GIL!” There wasn’t any sign of him. “GIL!” Malcolm’s face struck some furniture. It cracked his face and he tasted the bitterness of his own blood. He still crouched on the ground there looking over his shoulder at the window to see nothing’s there. Not John Watkins. Not Gil. Not even one of those topiary creatures outside. Malcolm rose to his feet using the back of his hand to attempt to stop his bloody nose.

It happened again.

Another sudden BANG as if hail struck the glass panel. 

BANG!

It was the third, the third time it happened, the third time there was such a loud mind breaking bang and nothing to be seen outside. None of the other ghosts either were to be seen. Not even the crooked women who. . .

Threw all her children from the roof.

BANG!

What did it sound like when they all fell?

 _How does he know?_ “My boy?” Martin’s voice boomed louder than the outdoor sounds. Malcolm turned to realize how close he stood. It wasn’t even like he raised his voice. “I think we need to have a quick. . .What happened?”

Malcolm still held his face in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but he wasn’t doing a good job at it. “Dry air?” he offered up.

BANG!

Martin didn’t even flinch. Instead, he rubbed Malcolm’s shoulder. “Let’s get you some help first.”

Malcolm was ushered toward the barroom while Martin kept a hand on his shoulder. The grip was a little too tight for comfort. There wasn’t too much of a choice for Malcolm. He was sent into the back where they once stood with John Watkins when ghost wasps were their worse worry. Ainsley’d been there, too. Martin used one of the fabric napkins for the tables out there, probably when the hotel was open to the public and looked a lot nicer. 

“Here.” Martin made sure Malcolm took the napkin after sitting him up on one of the counters. “Make sure you pinch the soft part of your nose with this, lean forward and breathe through your mouth, and make sure you don’t lean back. We don’t want any of the blood to drain down your throat, now would we?”

Malcolm only shook his head.

“What happened out there? It’s a little late for a walk.”

Malcolm leaned forward letting the blood drain.

“I’ll be right back.” Martin looked Malcolm up and down. “Looks like we’ll need to get you something a little warmer.”

“Why?” Malcolm blurted. The napkin messed with his words as he looked up. Some blood slipped down his throat as he did. Martin was already gone. His clothes were soaked already, thanks to the snow. But inside it was warm. If he were to stay inside, there was no reason to change unless. . . “D-Dad?” 

But there wasn’t anybody to call after already. Martin disappeared. _Comforting._

 **11/10** Malcolm stayed in the library a lot. He felt as if he couldn’t stop his research, it was important. He needed to learn more about death while learning more about deaths. He reached for a book only to hesitate. Right beside him stood Tommy.

“You’re here,” Malcolm whispered to Tommy. Outside he could hear Ainsley playing her regular games in the hallway. “Why are you here?”

Tommy shook his head while he pointed from the books of bound newspapers. Instead, he ushered Malcolm to leave the library altogether. “There’s something I want you to think about.” He led Malcolm into the barroom, which was silent. Of course, it was silent, they were all alone in the hotel. “Look here.”

In the back are of the barroom, Tommy led them past kitchen goods to a cabinet, which he opened up. There were several levels to it. All of which were full of newspapers. There were labels on each shelf:

  1. The New York Times
  2. The Washington Post
  3. National Enquirer
  4. The Philadelphia Inquirer
  5. Rocky Mountain News



There were more titles to read but Tommy handed him an issue of the _National Enquirer_. It was pretty recent. Unrelated to the Overlook but the front page held his attention. Tommy was already gone leaving him alone there with it in hand.

Without Tommy to answer questions, he moved a handful of newspapers out. First, he returned the one Tommy handed. Its headline panicked over some new, new serial killer in New York, New York. Instead, he reached for _The New York Times_ and carried them out into the bar room. All of them were recent and it somehow seemed so odd that such danger lurked so close to his own home.

Missing individuals. Individuals found dead. Sounded like the Overlook. Jokes by journalists about how this killer acts like a surgeon other than the fact he leaves so many dead. The issues went up until recently, nobody was delivering any mail to them, as of late.

“Malcolm!”

Martin startled him. He looked up from the pages of one paper unsure to why he felt so engrossed. Something about it made him think about the girl he found in Room 217. The connection was insane. They were so many miles away from home and yet there were all the stories of missing girls and the murderers or _murderer_ who preyed upon them and more.

“What-What are you looking at?” Martin smiled, but he ground his teeth. The wearing down of enamel was obvious from even where Malcolm sat. “What is this?!”

Malcolm flinched and tried to hide the current paper he was on because Martin never raised his voice at him. “Nothing.”

“Then why are you trying to hide it if it’s nothing?”

Yet Malcolm tried to cover up his newspapers. He should’ve been taking note all along, but it also didn’t make sense. He was collecting the stories of the Overlook. There had to be many stories, many more in New York City.

“What-What are you reading?”

“The news,” Malcolm finally answered.

Martin took one of the papers looking at it before making eye contact again. “This isn’t proper reading material for a boy your age.”

“It’s just the news.”

“The news is full of terrors and tragedies.” Martin shook his head as he collected the newspapers from him. “Now come on, it’s time to take your medicine.”

“But I’m not sick,” Malcolm actually protested. It was a first yet Martin grabbed him by the shoulder, his grip was tight enough to move him away toward the kitchen.

“I know that, it’s to help you with the change in altitude. Nothing to worry about.”

There was a lot to worry about, but Malcolm didn’t voice any of his concerns. He couldn’t ever remember taking any medicine, why he was taking his medicine in the first place. None of it made sense. None of it made sense. Right as they entered the kitchen, sleepiness overtook him. The world spin out of control as newspapers flew up all around him. Print rained all around him about alleged stories of killers in New York City before everything went black.

He woke up again in the barroom as a song begged for him to listen. _You must remember this. . ._

**_11/11_ : Woke up in bar, heard music, heard voices. Father found me, we talked, said to talk to him, didn’t hear all the noise. Ask him about it later?**

And the room beyond the kitchen where Malcolm waited with his bloody, bloody nose sang to him. _You must remember this. . ._ It sounded more like a drowned whisper, like how he occasionally remembered the in-between moments of his journal entries. He popped off the counter while letting the napkin to capture blood. He opened the cabinet Tommy showed him to find all those newspapers were gone.

“What are you doing?” Martin asked. He blocked the doorway forcing Malcolm to slowly turn around to see such a fact. Outside continued to beg him to remember while whispering it's same old, same old story of _red rum_. It wanted him dead and he had no idea why. “What are you looking for?”

“Napkins?” Malcolm held out the bloody one. His hands still weren’t clean.

He stabbed somebody.

He stabbed somebody

He should tell somebody about how he stabbed somebody.

Martin took a step forward, he smirked at Malcolm the whole time, tilting his head a bit to the side. “What are you talking about? What were you really doing?” _How does he know?_

“I can read minds,” Malcolm somehow found himself replying.

“What?”

“Oh. Nothing. I didn’t say anything. . .”

BANG! Another ghost body hit the floor. Martin continued to stand in the doorway. Malcolm couldn’t escape. His last escape was because he stabbed a person. Their blood all over his hands. He made a run for it. Close by Martin laid out a thick white sweater and some extra clothes to help with the cold.

“Get changed, we need to talk.” Martin left Malcolm in the kitchen. If he wanted to escape this then he’d need to stab Martin, but that was his father. There were plenty of steak knives available. He didn’t even understand how long it’d take for somebody to die if they were stabbed. Without arming himself, he dropped the napkin and grabbed the clothes off the counter. It was time to change, which didn’t feel right with the walls still yelling about murder.

He stabbed somebody.

The blood was already wiping off on the white sweater.

If only he could forget all of this the way he kept forgetting so, so, so many other things here.


	33. Thirty-Three: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm wakes up to some bad news.

# Thirty-Three

**Past**

The problem with being able to read minds was that you hear every word said and unsaid about you. Anywhere Malcolm went he heard the people pretty much singing:

_He’s a sinner, not a saint_  
_He’s a child, but he’s his father_  
_He’s a creep_  
_He’s a weirdo_  
_What the hell is he doing here?_  
_He doesn’t belong here_

Since the Overlook Hotel, Gil made weak attempts to explain how to trap the noise, noise, noise straight outside of his brain. But the anxiety wouldn’t let it go away. It heightened it. Increased it. Malcolm covered his ears when nobody was speaking out loud. Trying to take a test and getting an onslaught of other thoughts and looks.

_He’s just like his father._  
_Freak._  
_Freak._  
_Freak._  
_Freak._  
_Freak._

He had to hope school wasn’t so important. Malcolm tried to sit alone on a park bench while Ainsley was on the swings. Jessica watched him sighing, the sadness permeated from him. But it did for her as well. Sometimes the sadness felt all dead and drowned but not then and there at the park while Ainsley did her best to swing all her troubles away.

“They called me a freak,” Malcolm whispered not realizing he was answering the question in Jessica’s head. _Is he ok? Did something happen? What happened now?_

Jessica knelt down before him. She stared at him and Malcolm continued with his own words out loud. She rubbed the back of his hands.

“They say I’m a monster like dad.”

Jessica touched Malcolm’s cheek. Her brain was all spongey, not quite full, and drowned from all of her drinking. She smiled an actual smile. It didn’t take a psychic to know so. Yet while an actual smile, it wasn’t much of one. A smile for comfort. Malcolm’s comfort. A smile to fake happiness. For everybody else’s comfort.

“You’re nothing like him, Malcolm,” Jessica whispered. “You’re not a monster. You’re a survivor.”

Her words were all caught up in an echo alongside an old song Ainsley once listened to.

_Survivor._  
_Survivor._  
_Survivor._  
_Survivor._

It wasn’t the past but instead a fleeting memory dream. . .

**Present**

Malcolm moved, falling back into what felt more like the present. His body ached, it was his head, all jumbled up with a growing silence around him. He looked up unable to recognize anything around him realizing how much he truly messed up. If it wasn’t obvious before then it was obvious now. The weight of the world weighed down on his wrists. He moved a bit listening to chains dangle across the concrete ground only to roll over onto his back and groan.

If only he were the sort of person to try and persuade himself: _This isn’t real_.

But it was, but it was.

And already he knew it was all his fault.

Lying there, Malcolm continued to observe his surroundings. There wasn’t much of the mundane to analyze. He attempted a loud “HELP!” and with his own mind as well, _HELP!_ Somebody out there had to hear him. “HELP!” _HELP!_ “Anybody.” _Anybody._ The ground chilled his skin and his feet. Guess his shoes were gone. Made it easier to prevent him from running. Chains, too, but more obvious. They were looped into the floor and only silence reached his garbled thoughts of half remembered ghosts and the face of a man he was sure, he was sure he remembered from his past.

A person.  
A person who knew his father.  
A person he. . .  
It got murky.

A door opened and closed full of metal wrath. Another detail he’ll need especially once he reaches Gil. It’s not if he reaches Gil, but _when_ Stay positive. It’s ok. Positivity can be life saving. He will reach Gil. He has before. Gil’s saved him before. Gil can save him again. Whoever took him (that familiar face) entered. Watkins, John Watkins was the name. Malcolm raised his chin to lean his head back enough to take in some movement. There were lightbulbs sticking from the walls and electricity running along the walls. The wires were clear where they hung out. All details to memorize, analyze, and keep to himself.

“No one can hear you scream out here,” huffed John Watkins making his way across the room. It’s about what? Maybe five to ten steps? Maybe less. Malcolm should’ve counted better but it’s already too late. His jumbled head is to blame after being hit so hard. It hurts. It aches. And the world continues to weigh him down at his wrists as Watkins approaches him. There’s no thoughts bouncing around him, no colors, songs, or emotions. He’s simply nothing, the opposite of noise, noise, noise other than his question earlier: _Remember me?_

Malcolm sits up trying to get a good look at his boots and watches Watkins drop a heavy, heavy leather back right by his head. None of this can be good. He sits there avoiding being hit or at least being hit for now. Watkins even sets up a chair. It’s as if he’s swinging right into a campground spot.

So Malcolm does his best smile. “Are you sure?” He tries to keep it up while never looking away from his attacker. Still, faint memories of him are there, he can just grab onto them and remember, remember that he. . . “I’m a pretty good screamer. Had a lot of practice.”

Watkins listens, he pretends he’s not but he sure is. He’s setting up some light fixture hanging onto each and every single word of Malcolm’s while emoting as little as possible. It’s the body language of his, partially facing Malcolm, seeing him out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, don’t be scared, Malcolm,” Watkins goes on. Using his first name again and again. _Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm._ And again there was his question earlier, _Remember me?”_ Watkins carries on with his usual business. He plugs his light in and turns it on. 

First, it’s hissing at them like a series of wasps (Gil _will_ find him in time, but what if he doesn’t? And Malcolm almost places Watkins, he recognizes him for a split second again. His memories are so fleeting, so fuzzy, and seem impossible to forget but it’s so easy.

There’s Watkins floating in between doorways along long hallways. Standing around the barroom like he, too, is a ghost going unnoticed. Him in the kitchen with Ainsley there, too. Ainsley’s going to be so mad, so furious with him not at dinner. Maybe she’ll forgive him if he’s dead, but this is Ainsley. As sad as she’ll be, she’ll also be mad at not getting one last word in. The same goes to Jessica who’s also out there somewhere. Maybe they’re both doing Christmas dinner or maybe not. Time’s not existent. Chances are Malcolm wasn’t out for long after being at Watkins’ place otherwise that might signify other dangers such as brain damage. But from there to here, who knows what’s happened.


	34. Thirty-Four: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Overlook is getting to everybody.

# Thirty-Four

**Past**

For no real reason at all, Gil understood Malcolm somehow changed the Overlook Hotel. He sensed it the first time they met. Something about the walls surged with an energy he could feel no matter how far he moved from the hotel. It was all he could feel as he rushed toward it. The walls were full of such energy, they practically sang out to him, which helped seeing how little he could see as he sped forward in a snowstorm. 

Snowflakes struck his vehicle so fast, it looked as if he distorted space and time like in _Star Trek_ or _Star Wars_. In both, the good guys always won in the end. He was good. Malcolm was good. His father and mother and sister were probably all good, as well. But there was something evil crouched right over all of their lives and for whatever reason, Malcolm made it all so much worse.

He’d been sitting at a bar in town earlier in the night. Minding his own business as he caught up with the bartender there. The two lamenting about how they had nowhere to go on their holiday ‘breaks.’ But Malcolm yelled so loud for him over the Shining, it knocked him clear off his seat and he even blacked out a little. Everybody was so worried and wanted to stop him from running.

But run he did.

Gil’s car did its best to make its way upwards towards the swirling clouds above. They devoured the Overlook Hotel. All its lights were on, windows glared at him through the storm. Other than the eyes of the place, Gil couldn’t make out what was up there on the hill. But he knew where and how it stood.

_Kid?!_ Gil tried to get back in contact with Malcolm. His brain was full of static though. Like the television set after a certain time at night when all programs go off the air and the steady buuuuuuuzz of nothing followed. _Macolm?_

At least the roads weren’t too bad yet. The car continued forward, doing its best. The anxiety built up in his chest made his heart feel ready to pop, it was worse the closer he came to the hotel. Its body became more clear. It wasn’t only the eyes glaring down at him. Gil tried to push the car to go faster but it sputtered not wanting to do so. His brain was full of such white noise, there wasn’t any sign of Malcolm and no sign of the hotel other than its energy.

_Almost there Mal. . ._ The message was mainly unsent though. The front of the car struck the ground, something pinned it they're forcing the back to fly up and he was sure, so sure he was about to somersault forward in the vehicle but at least it collapsed right back down. Glass shattered all around them letting the cold tangle with his body. Shards cut him all up and already bruises started to form underneath the seat belt. It did a number on him as well, the fabric did its best to sever him in half.

Dizziness won.

His ears rang and he was able to make out some movement, good timing, too. Gil struggled to free himself before throwing his full weight into the door. A topiary Irish elk from the hedge maze jammed its foot through his car. Metal bent around its branches as leaves exploded everywhere. Gil already tried his best to escape with an actual shoulder roll. A move that looked much better in the movies than in real life. His joint popped, so loud. For a split second, he thought it dislocated. Lying there he stared up as the Irish Elk struggled to free its leg from the car. Metal scraped bark off its leg, but it managed to fling the car off into some trees. All of it buckled in two. He was pretty close to death. The topiary creature moved onward, down the hill, away from the Overlook.

Once or twice he’d seen the topiary creatures move. It'd be something to make him do a double-take though. It didn't look like a lot of movement, maybe leaves trembling on the wind but a head would turn left or right to look at something else. In the end, he always end up blaming it up to too much alcohol even though he’d been sober on the one day. There was the occasional whispered complaint about them, but nothing like this. Gil rolled onto his stomach, he used his elbows and hands to drag himself off the side of the road and out of sight. The Overlook watched him and the world around it. Another topiary creature strutted after the first. A second Irish elk looking as majestic as the first but less menacing without its legs splitting metal and almost taking his life.

He’d have to walk the rest of the way.

_Almost there kid!_ Gil called out.

He heard Malcolm that time around, but it was just Malcolm talking to Malcolm as some other panic overtook him. It wasn’t him screaming for help anymore but instead _I stabbed. I stabbed somebody. I stabbed. I stabbed somebody._ The somebody in question was a faded photograph Gil could almost make out from all of Malcolm’s fear and screaming. It was just ‘cause of the Shining he could sense such fear being channeled through the world. 

Gil inhaled deeply, he counted a few seconds before he got up again ready to walk through the wooded area hoping tree trunks would protect him from the eyes of the Overlook. He took a few steps forward only to almost lose his balance all over again.

Malcolm screaming caused such searing pain, _GIL! GIL!_

“I’m trying to get there, kid,” Gil muttered to himself, still forcing himself to move forward. It was a pretty big walk he was about to take on.

### 

“Ainsley?” 

Jessica arrived to the floor where she could’ve sworn she heard her daughter crying. She was a mother, weren’t mothers supposed to find their children no matter what? Weren’t mothers supposed to be attuned to the danger their kids faced? And yet, she had no idea how Malcolm got out of the hotel and how he ended up half-frozen out there with blood smeared across his hands and face. Martin was the only reason to why she knew something was wrong that something was off and now she couldn’t even find Ainsley as she started walking down a long hallway.

There weren’t any windows in the hallway and all of the doors were closed. It was what Martin demanded yet snow floated through the building. A few times she checked in an attempt to see if it came through the vents, but it was impossible to tell. First, and more important, was finding her daughter.

“Ainsley?” Jessica tried to shout a little louder while she walked a lot slower.

It was so cold. Apparently, she needed a winter coat to be on the inside of the hotel. Yet it’d been so warm downstairs, she felt dripping of sweat as if the boiler was all off. What did she know about such things? It was a mistake to come out all this way.

Snow continued to fall. It hung out in patches and she noticed red speckled in some. Jessica almost moved past it ignoring it because the floor was red, too. An eyesore that gave her a huge headache whenever she looked or thought about it. Never would she select such a hideous carpet for a place. And this was supposed to be a nice hotel? At first, she thought it was pieces of the carpet, threads hanging out in the snow patches but it dotted the ground in a different sort of way. Jessica paused looking at it.

Blood was on the floor.

Blood was on the wall.

Lines were spread across the walls as if somebody dipped their hand in red paint then dragged their fingers across it. Jessica turned feeling the presence of somebody else. She covered her mouth managing to stifle a scream. It was just Ainsley standing in front of her while staring at the ground. Ainsley glanced over her shoulder at Jessica and Jessica was at such a loss for words. Somebody took an ax and gave two girls forty whacks. Their broken bodies were crumpled up on the ground with blood everywhere. Of course, there was blood everywhere. 

It was supposed to only be them at the hotel. Who were they? How did they get in? There weren't any homes around for Ainsley to meet friends to invite over. And Ainsley was so young, she probably wouldn't go far enough away from the hotel to find friends.

“What happened?” whispered Ainsley.

Jessica was stuck while she stared at the two dead girls. Somehow she found it in herself to move forward and put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders because the right thing would be to lead her away and protect her.

“They said we could play forever and ever and ever,” Ainsley continued.

What? What was she even talking about?

Jessica was able to guide Ainsley around. They were about to start walking in the opposite direction yet somehow the hallway look impossibly long. She’d come up the stairs to be here, it wasn’t that far of a walk yet the stairs were out of sight, there wasn’t even another sound of Martin and Malcolm downstairs.

“They _promised_!” Some anger buried in her voice and Ainsley stared back at the two dead girls. “THEY PROMISED!”

What? What was she even talking about? They were the only ones in the hotel. They were the only ones in the hotel! Yet somehow two girls snuck inside to play with her daughter only to die and if they were dead then maybe that meant whoever killed them was. . .

“MARTIN!” Jessica screamed but the hallway was so long.

Ainsley clawed at Jessica. “They promised! THEY PROMISED TO PLAY!”

Jessica grabbed Ainsley by both shoulders looking her in the eye. “Now is _not_ the time for this! We are going and we are going downstairs! Your-Your brother is there!” Except Ainsley continued to wrestle with her trying to break free. She managed to do so after kicking at Jessica who lost her hold on her daughter for all of a second and just like that Ainsley was gone. She ran down the hallway screeching something her ears couldn’t make out. The frequency was too high. Ainsley threw open a door and disappeared on the inside. 

“Ainsley!” Jessica followed managing to open the door. It wasn’t even locked but on the other side, there was nothing. No sign of Ainsley and when she turned around, the snow was gone along with the two dead girls. She stood there lost, so lost, very lost. Jessica looked in the direction she came again and started shouting, “MARTIN!”

### 

“Wow, would you _look_ at _that_.”

Malcolm stood right outside the kitchen area wearing the new clothes Martin brought him. It was much warmer in his white sweater, a positive. Helped him think clearer. But life was too weird for clear thought to have a purpose. In the time he was gone, Martin pushed some of the tables out of the way. There were a few people casually sitting around, legs crossed as they drank and watched the brand new game Martin played. He held onto a croquet mallet with little makeshift hoops to crash a ball through. A bright red one rolled across the floor, it made its way through not just one hoop, but two.

“Maybe I have the chance of being a croquet champion,” Martin continued.

Malcolm stood there watching him though without too many words to share. In reality, he didn’t know what words to share. Blood speckled Martin. Some of it was smeared across the backs of his hands and his fingers. Once again, his father hit the ball managing to get it through a third hoop. The surrounding ghosts applauded, the sounds of them were all so clear.

“Have you ever played?” Martin asked. He offered the mallet up for Malcolm to take. The blood no longer visible along any part of him. Whatever it was, it was a fleeting memory or a moment in the past. Malcolm didn’t budge while he stared at his father. “Is something wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“The boy knows too much,” one of the ghosts said and Martin glanced at her.

“The boy should die,” said another ghost but that time Martin looked at Malcolm. “We need him to stay here, forever.”

“No, no.” Martin hit the ball back through one of the hoops. “He’s too much like me.” _Maybe Watkins was right about killing him._

“I stabbed him,” Malcolm didn’t mean to say _those_ words out loud. The idea of cursing felt uncomfortable, but he was pretty sure it was the perfect moment to drop something like the F-bomb because those three words should’ve stayed wrapped up in his head.

“You stabbed him?” Martin straightened his back. The croquet mallet bounced off the side of his foot while he watched and the ghosts watched, as well. “What do you mean by you stabbed him?”

“Watkins, your friend.” Malcolm knew he needed to stop. The bouncing of the mallet grew faster as anxiety spiked within Martin. It was pretty clear. Somewhere upstairs Ainsley screamed. Her words were all broken up but they could almost make out _promised_. “He wanted to hurt me.”

“ _My friend_?” The bounce stopped. Martin swung the mallet back letting it hang over his one shoulder. “What do you mean my friend wanted to hurt you? Why would he ever want to do that?” _He really, really does know. He knows._

“I don’t know anything.” Wrong words all over again. Malcolm bit his lower lip so hard, it split.

Martin cocked his head to the side a bit as he studied Malcolm. The mallet continued to hang over his one shoulder. His fingers toyed with the handle and the ghosts simply watched. They already said what they wanted to say. Even the walls made it clear. _Murder_.

“You’re a smart boy,” Martin commented. He swung the mallet down whacking the red ball so hard. It went straight through some of the hoops before crashing straight out of the barroom. Maybe the kitchen would lead to a different exit. Maybe it was the only path Malcolm had ahead of him. Martin moved between him and the main exit. “Come on, let’s go have a chat. Maybe there’ll even be time for a quick game.”

Upstairs Jessica screamed for Martin’s attention. He flicked his focus in her direction, but not for long. He continued to stand between Malcolm and the doorway. He toyed with the croquet mallet, letting it bounce all around him. Malcolm tried to swallow some fear, but his mouth was too dry. This wasn’t fair. He wanted all four of them to sit down to a regular dinner in an unhaunted hotel and in a world where he never learned words like **family annihilator** and any others associated with such violence.

“Are you ok? You look upset.”

Malcolm turned too fast to run, his foot slid out from underneath him and he smacked chin first into the floor. His teeth clattered and maybe one of them even shattered. He tasted more blood in his mouth from the accident and the split lip. Malcolm’s whole body continued to ache with such pain. He couldn’t rid himself from the cold that sank in too deep earlier. Yet he pushed his palms into the floor attempting a haphazard pushup to get back up but Martin caught his one ankle pulling him backward. It sent him again chin first into the ground. Tears welled up in his eyes and he was sure he knocked a filling out because something crunched in between his teeth.

“Sorry, we need to have a quick and important family discussion.”

Pain was looped around Martin’s fingers. He held onto Malcolm, dragging him away toward Jessica screaming for his attention. The pain didn’t belong to Martin nor Malcolm. No, that wasn’t necessarily right. The pain _did_ belong to Martin because it was pain he inflicted in the past, but not his own as in pain stemming from his own body. Malcolm had nothing to grab onto and the ghost continued to watch him. At least the walls were quieter and there was no loud banging outside. Instead, his fingers scraped the carpet while he eyed for anything or something to grab onto when he heard such a distant whisper:

_Almost there kid!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so slow! I've been so busy with finals for school and I'm trying to figure out a way to balance Martin Whitly as Martin Whitly while writing scenes with him as Jack Torrance. Then I just decided to just go with the flow whenever I feel like I'm ok with things.


	35. Thirty-Five: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything's a mess in the aftermath of Malcolm getting kidnapped.

# Thirty-Five

**Present**

Gil sits in his office needing a moment to himself. He buries his face into his hands, massages his temples, everybody so loud out there with every reason to be loud. Bright’s gone. Bright’s been taken. Bright might not come back. And so many thoughts are bubbling up in his brain, waves getting ready to pull back into a tidal wave of pain.

_That kid’s insane, man._ _Twelve hours? He’s dead, he’s gotta be dead._ _Why’d he do it?_ _Could’ve been home but the weird kid got his ass kidnapped._ _He’s probably dead. We should get to go home._ _Hope he’s alive._

Somehow Gil even catches a memory floating through the air, it’s quieter than the roaring thoughts of everybody else. It’s Dani. She’s sitting at her desk staring at a lollipop in her pencil holder jumping between the past and the present. A past where Bright strutted onto the scene, all smiles and handing out lollipops to everybody. Not it sits there, nothing but a memory.

Gil looks at his watch and gets up to leave. He can’t shut the voices out. It’s been a long, long time since it’s been this bad. Why couldn’t any of them be Malcolm? Some hint to where he is.

Outside in the chaos, Colette takes the floor yelling out information, “Listen up it’s been twelve hours since Detective Owen Shannon was murdered and NYPD consultant Malcolm Bright was kidnapped. Our prime suspect is one John Watkins, A.K.A. Paul Lazar, known to the public as The Junkyard Killer. Now we know that Watkins’ MO is to keep his victims alive for a time, but he also just changed all that with his last three murders so assume nothing.”

Colette pauses spotting Gil standing there keeping an eye on her. She repeats, _Assume nothing._

Gil just nods in response.

“Time is of the essence.” Colette starts walking away as a people’s rapid thoughts start speeding up. They’re all on a hush hush but loud enough for a mind-numbing headache. “Powell, I need you and your partner.”

JT watches Collete getting ready to speak. His thoughts are moving so fast. They’re flashes of words. 

_kid_

_weird as fuck_

_required taste_

_can’t let him die_

JT tries to work on words to say out loud.

_do something_

_we need to do more_

“I want you to look through evidence photos, logging, flagging anything,” Colette starts talking right away, cutting JT off before he can even start. “Anything that requires follow up.”

_fuck no_

_what?_

“Unis can handle that,” retorts JT. “Brights our guy. We can’t just sit around. . .”

_might be required taste. . ._

_but he’s still our guy_

“In the FBI evidence isn’t rookie work, Officer Tarmel.”

“My rank’s detective, special agent,” JT cuts in crossing his arms.

But Dani pipes up even with falling in and out of the present. Back in time to Malcolm strutting up to the crime scene and handing out some lollipops. “We’re. . .on it.” She looks right at Colette. “However we can help.”

_what? ___

___no fuck._ _ _

___why is she saying that?_ _ _

__Colette nods and says, “Good.” She shoots a look at JT, taking in his posture and the way he’s clenching his jaw, and walks away._ _

__The words start spilling out as JT looks over to Dani. There’s no fury to them just confusion laced with each letter. “Why-Why are you. . .”_ _

__“Working with the FBI is gonna be a lot easier than against,” Dani cuts right to the chase._ _

__JT somewhat smiles. _good point, good point_ They slip away to do their work._ _

__Gil’s moving, he needs to catch up with Colette who is doing her best to make rounds around the precinct. She’s marching around looking in charge. Gil doesn’t. There’s a little too much panic in him. He slips past a few people matching Colette’s pace._ _

__“We need to talk,” Gil says right away._ _

__Colette shakes her head. Then she makes a double point, making sure Gil understands. _We don’t need to talk._ “What I need is to interrogate Matilda Watkins, the last one who saw Shannon and Bright alive.”_ _

__Why would she say it like that?_ _

__Colette reminds, _Make no assumptions.__ _

__Yet she is._ _

__“Bright is still alive!” Gil plants his feet refusing to move along. At least, he gets Colette to stop and focus on just him for a split second. It was more than enough time. “And Jessica Whitly deserve to know her son is missing?”_ _

__Colette scowls at him. Even though she appears to be connected to the shining, she says the following words out loud. Words for anybody to grab onto as any bit of evidence. “Why, so she can give an exclusive to TMZ?”_ _

__“She’s his mother!” Gil protests._ _

__“She was also married to The Surgeon.”_ _

__“What does that mean?”_ _

__Colette is close to rolling her eyes. It’s clear. How could it not be any clearer? “It means, I don’t trust Jessica Whitly, and neither should you. Unless you know where she got that photo from.”_ _

__Gil shakes his head coming at an impasse. “I’m focused on finding Malcolm Bright.”_ _

__Colette nods. “Then let’s do it.” She turns away from him ready to follow through with what she said. Interrogate Matilda Watkins. This leaves Gil to do what? Watch the interrogation? Help with the interrogation? The shining can be legally held up in court. Go and tell Jessica Whitly? She still really has no idea. Colette looks over her shoulder at Gil. _Coming?__ _

__And so he follows._ _

### 

__Matilda Watkins is a blank slate. It’s as if not a single thought rumbles through her mind or she’s good at keeping them locked up. She’s clearly thinking about something. Annoyance riddles her words. She keeps demanding, “Where’s my soda pop? I only get one have one soda a day.”_ _

__“We have a few questions to ask,” Colette attempts to start a ‘conversation.’_ _

__Matilda shakes her head. “Where’s my soda pop?”_ _

__“And you’ll get it, but we need your help.” Colette sits down, she’s eye level with Matilda now. Gil stays back in a corner of the room witnessing the scene. He tries to pry into Matilda’s thoughts but his brain is already too tired from all the noise, noise, noise outside. “Where would John take Malcolm Bright besides the junkyard?”_ _

__But Matilda abandons her soda pop complaint and instead starts to hum some old hymnal of a tune. She’s tapping the table, tracing the notes out as she keeps on humming leaving Colette and Gil there to watch her. Stare at her. Observe her. Try to understand her. Matilda’s humming grows louder in their silence._ _

__Except Gil moves from the shadowy corner watching Matilda continue her humming. “I remember that one,” he admits, “from church.”_ _

__Matilda snorts but gets lost in some laughter making the room somehow feel a lot darker._ _

__Her humming changes to some whisper singing, “Sinners punished beneath that flood, Lose all, Their guilty stains, “_ _

__Enough._ _

__Gil slams his hand down into the metal table causing such a racket, hearts skip a beat. Not Matilda though. Though she stops she looks up in his direction. Gil’s talking again. They need answers. They needed answers hours ago. It’s already getting too late. “Ms. Watkins. . .this is your last chance. Where is your grandson?”_ _

__Matilda ignores the edge in his voice, a growing anger. Not that he’d lash out at her or anybody else. But Bright is out there. He’s _alive_ somewhere out there even though it’s been some time since he last heard his voice. Matilda hums and whispers her church hymn._ _

__“A fountain filled with blood, Drawn from. . .” She was at such a whisper but her voice grew louder as she spat out a change in words “. . .Policemen’s veins. . .”_ _

__Colette scoffs as she stands up. “Get-Get her out of here.”_ _

__Matilda leans into the table still singing to her same tune, “Your little friend, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s where the party never ended, he’s nothing but a stain.”_ _

__Gil and Colette are stuck watching Matilda taunt them and resist her exit. As soon as the door slams shut, Colette looks over at Gil. “I’m sorry, Arroyo. She was never gonna give us anything useful.”_ _

___But still._ _ _

__There was something about what she said though, some old fact Gil couldn’t quite pinpoint. _He’s dead, he’s where the party never ended_. It obviously didn’t belong to the rest of the words. Nothing about it matched._ _

__“I may know somebody who can help,” Gil admits though he doesn’t want to._ _

__He doesn’t even need to form actual words around the idea. Colette already knows, she gets it, doesn’t take somehow inclined to the shining to make a good guess at the _somebody_ referenced._ _

__“But I’m gonna need a favor from you.”_ _

__Even with knowing, it’s always just half the battle, Colette stares at Gil wanting to shake her head and write off the idea, but she can’t. He’s got a point. A pretty good point. Gil does know somebody who can help. . ._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took forever! I've had a very rough past few weeks or month, I don't even know anymore. It feels like ages. Anyway, thanks for reading!


	36. Thirty-Six: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm starts to learn more about the Shining.

# Thirty-Six

 _You’re dangerous, you know that right?_ It’s Tommy but Tommy was looking less and less like an imaginary friend and more and more like Malcolm Whitly.

Malcolm’s not sure where he was or how he saw Tommy because the world was all black, inky black as if he fell into dark velvet. 

“What?” he whispered.

 _It’s in your blood. Being dangerous._ Tommy continued. His voice sounded almost like a rehashed memory, one that’s not quite right and altered a bit.

“I’m not dangerous. . .” whispered Malcolm because he meant it.

_But you are._

Malcolm shook his head.

Tommy either warned him or threatened him or encouraged him. _You are and you’ll need to be._ Except Malcolm continued to shake his head. To make it clear he meant no, he shook his head a whole lot faster. Tommy stared right at him not taking this as an answer. _You’ve already stabbed a man._

True.

Malcolm stopped shaking his head because it was maybe true, maybe he was dangerous.

### 

**Past**

Malcolm wanted to rub his jaw, it hurt from the fall but his hands were a bit caught up in the moment.

His hands were caught behind him with chords cutting into his wrists. No chloroform this time, which would’ve been nicer because the Overlook wailed. Malcolm sat at a long table in one of the dining rooms. Not the bar, at least. He didn’t like it there. Martin wasn’t around but the ghosts shouted and cried for him. The ghosts wanted him to fade away and let his father carry on but now the ghost changed their tune not letting him fall out into a deep sleep where he could barely grapes onto memories because they were so drenched and crumbling to pieces.

Jessica wasn’t shouting any longer. Martin’d been away to check up on her after trapping him there at the table as if they’ll actually sit down and eat. In another room, somebody played the piano reminding him of _Looney Tunes_ , so old fashioned and so full of violence.

The music grew louder, its notes reaching out to him. There wasn’t any sign of Gil nor could he hear Gil shouting out to him. Tommy said he could hurt those around him. Something inside of him was bad, badness in his blood, he could cause pain. Malcolm tried to scoot backward but the legs of the chair started to crack.

Wood exploded underneath him as he fell back afraid he’d knock himself unconscious. Didn’t. Wood cut up his legs though. Splitters bit him along with the chord around his wrists. They’re still bound behind his back with a hunk of wood tied to his existence now. He struggled to roll over unsure how to get back up, but on his stomach, he realized somebody stood there. His nose almost touching their Mary Janes.

Malcolm peered up to see a woman in one of those glimmering flapper dresses. She held onto some sort of drink in one hand as she crouched before him. There were even feathers in her hair. At first, he thought her dress was the color of red wine only to realize it’d been one color at another point in time. Instead, the crimson was her blood showing through the fabric. Long, long dead.

The woman smiled at him as the hotel continued it’s wailing, it’s _Red Rum Red Rum Red Rum_. In the reflection of her glass, he could spot his bound hands. There still wasn’t a sound from Jessica above, which may be a problem. Martin wasn’t acting himself. And the ghosts were to blame. Right? The ghost were to blame. He wanted to be the ghosts to be at fault. Only the ghosts to be at fault. They were to blame, right? Right?!

“The first was young Alexis Scott, she tried not to let him in; he stabbed her with a corn knife, that’s how his crimes begin.”

Malcolm knew those words. She’d said them to him before. The only reason why his father was acting this way was because-because-because. . .

“The next was Sharice Baker, so old and tired and gray, She fit off her attacker until her strength give away.”

“Help me,” Malcolm attempted.

The woman touched his cheek and shook her head. “The next was Lyla Thompson, A-settin’ by the fire, he crept up close behind her and strangled her with a wire.”

“Please?” Malcolm tried, close to tears. He wanted none of this to be happening. None of this was happening. He needed to wake up. He needed to get up. He needed to do something. 

“Go walking through the valley, Go walking through the valley, As he’s done before. . .Watch out, he’ll steal you, too. . .but oh how he has, how he has, he’s stolen you right out from under yourself.”

The woman began to stand up with sounds rummaging in another room. There are glimpses of lost lives, but not lost lives in the hotel but the words the woman mentioned. A woman in the one room, stuck in the tub, her ankle twisted in the park, and Martin promising her a phone to call on. When his father pulled him over to the table as if they’re a regular family ready for a regular family dinner, he felt all the pain, pain dripping into his chest.

Pain from Martin’s past.

Pain inflicted by Martin in the past while ghosts warned him that he knew too much, but he knew nothing.

 _GIL!_ Malcolm screamed knowing he’s close. But where is he?

The woman flinched like he shocked her.

Malcolm screamed again, _GIL!_ But louder. He made sure it was louder to watch some pain spark up in the woman’s face. He hurt the ghost. The ghosts were dangerous and apparently so was he. Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut to summon what strength he had as in all the strength he could muster up.

He stabbed somebody.

He could still feel the blood soaking into his hands.

He stabbed somebody.

Malcolm pictured his words as knives. Each letter created the blade and he needed to scream and needed to do something. To send them flying out.

 _GET! AWAY!_ he screamed with such strength imagining blades cutting up the woman there.

The ghost fell backward without blood splattering everywhere. She looked more translucent as if pieces of her were torn away and she crumpled into nothing leaving him there by himself with bound hands.

“Malcolm!” blurted Jessica.

But Malcolm couldn’t see her when she entered.

“What have you done, my boy?” Martin chimed in and pulled him onto his feet. To the side, Malcolm spotted Jessica and Ainsley. 

Ainsley’s face was all puffy from some tears. She stood there sniffling and able to wipe her face unlike him and his injured jaw and his ringing ears. Something from those words brought on exhaustion like he never felt before. Tiredness that made his brain spark up with some pain. 

G-E-T! A-W-A-Y!

“What are you even doing?” Jessica moved forward looking close to saying something else. Malcolm only knew that was a fact for sure because he heard her thoughts. _We need to get out of here, but with the storm. . ._

“Don’t. . .touch him. . .” Martin said. He didn’t yell it and he didn’t snap, he said it with some underlying fury that caused them all to tense up. Malcolm felt it in himself and Jessica and Ainsley. “Go sit down.”

“Sit down?” repeated Jessica. _What? What is he talking about?_ “What are you talking about?”

She was always speaking the words on her mind.

“I said. . .sit down, please.” The same fury lived in his words forcing Jessica to move toward the long table with a hand on Ainsley’s shoulder. “ _Martin_ , we have to go.”

“How?”

“We call emergency services? I don’t know! I don’t know how these things work! But we can’t stay here!” Jessica kept a hand on Ainsley’s shoulder. Her screams were an echo in her brain. Ainsley was upset. So upset. She was upset because. . .

Malcolm looked at the doorway to the room to spot the twins standing there. Martin kept him on his feet and Ainsley pointed at the girls yet Jessica struggled to move her to a seat at the table. She didn’t really say anything else. Not out loud, at least. She could see the girls. So could Ainsley. Martin, too, but he didn’t care too much about them.

“Ainsley,” both of the twins said in unison.

“Stay here,” Jessica told her daughter.

Malcolm stared at them, Martin kept him on his feet, his hands were still bound. But maybe he didn’t need them to help out in the moment. Instead, Malcolm squinted at the twins standing there. Killed by a family annihilator. There was more than one inside the Overlook. They were why the walls kept on wailing and asking for murder. 

His murder.

But he didn’t want to think about that.

Words in his head could be dangerous. Malcolm stared at the twins thinking push. He continued to squint, so focused and in more pain as he watched the twins. It was as if his brain reached out and his words along with it. PUSH and he shoved both of the girls over causing Martin to release Malcolm while looking down at him.

The walls continued their shouting: _Red Rum! Red Rum! Red Rum!_

Murder Murder Murder Murder.

One of the twins attempted to stand up but Malcolm never peeled his eyes away. _PUSH!_ And she fell over once again, the wind shifted around him.The ghosts could hurt and he could hurt them.

“Malcolm?” Martin whispered kneeling down beside him except Malcolm didn’t look away from the twins, in case they stood up again. 

Meanwhile, the walls kept up their whispering and Martin understood it best. 

The Overlook needed him dead and Martin had his own problem on his hands. Malcolm knew too much. This was about to be a lot. What Malcolm really needed was to understand how to free his hands from his binds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this isn't terrible! Sorry it's been so long, I've had a rough time lately. But thanks for sticking around if you're still here and I PROMISE that it'll start moving forward again right after this. Happy New Year!
> 
> It's still so tricky with like Martin Whitly here being almost like a Jack Torrance.
> 
> (sorry)


	37. Thirty-Seven: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Overlook grows more and more dangerous so does Malcolm. He's trying to figure out the best ways to use the Shining but it's hurting him in the process.

# Thirty-Seven

**Past**

“Sit down,” Martin ordered. 

It could’ve been an order for everybody yet somehow he clearly meant it for just Malcolm. Even though that was clear, Malcolm continued to stand there looking up at Martin rather than any other part of the wailing hotel.

“What’s going on?!” Jessica snapped. Her and Ainsley continued to stare at the twins now gone.

“Sit down!” Martin ordered everybody that time around.

“Sit? Sit down?” Jessica rolled her eyes. “We need to call somebody! For help!”

 _Something’s wrong. . ._ both her and Ainsley said it and meant it.

“Jessica. . .” Martin almost hissed her name. He looked at her lifting a hand. 

And for no reason at all, both Malcolm and Ainsley took a seat. She sat close to him and picked at the chords around his wrists. She was too young to get why or begin to predict anything was happening. Yet Malcolm moved a bit to let her pick at them more. She’d free him.

At least, Martin lowered his hand. “. . . _Jessica_. . .nobody’s going to come for us.”

“You’re wrong,” Malcolm said while Ainsley continued messing with the chords.

“What?”

“Somebody _is_ coming.”

Martin studied him. “Where did you say my friend went?”

“Outside.” Malcolm looked at his feet.

“The maze will eat him,” whispered Ainsley, capturing a lot of attention because that’s discomforting.

“I’m going to call the police,” muttered Jessica.

“No, I said. . .SIT DOWN!” Martin actually yelled, forcing her to drop into a seat at the table. 

The scent of food cooking permeated throughout the room. Wasn’t a few seconds ago. Yet the clear smell of fish on the grill took over. Fish and lemon and garlic. Every single person in the hotel was present. The living were, at least. Jessica wrinkled her nose looking over at the door to the room. No twins were around, good.

“What do you mean?”

“The deer,” replied Ainsley.

“Just that somebody is coming,” replied Malcolm answering a different question. 

“Stay here,” Martin muttered something else. He plucked the croquet mallet from the floor before he stormed off into another room leaving the three sitting at the table with the scent of fish floating all around the room.

None of them said anything for a few seconds. Malcolm could count them out. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Ainsley pulled the chords off his wrists and Jessica had nothing to say out loud. She sort of glanced at them preoccupied with the weirdness. Three Mississippi. Four Mississippi. It was another layer to it. Her brain flicked it off as if Malcolm were playing weird games again. He was always being fairly strange.

“Can I have macaroni and cheese instead?” Ainsley said as if she were cutting into a nonexistent conversation happening.

Her words stirred Jessica. She shook her head but then nodded. _Instead? Instead of what?_ But she knew. It was somehow obvious as if they could see the scent of food cooking unfurling all around them. “Sure, sure. Let’s see what we have. . .upstairs. . .” But upstairs was the. . .

“We should go upstairs,” Malcolm agreed. He kept nodding not wanting anything to do with his own father upon his return or what if John Watkins crawled his way back inside. He stabbed a person and they were still close by. “I want to go upstairs.”

“Ok. . .we’re going upstairs.” Some level of frustration entered her voice but Jessica wasn’t even sure what she was mad at. 

Not Malcolm but also Malcolm. 

Not Ainsley but also Ainsley. 

Not Martin but also Martin and not what happened. . .but she was certainly mad about them abandoning their lives for this madness. 

“I need to make a phone call or a-a radio call.” She tried to pick through everything that was said to them when they arrived. All of which was for Martin but seemed important. Super important. More important to the present.

  * It gets cold up there, snow blocks the roadways. Make sure you’re prepared.
  * Roads will close up throughout winter so be careful.
  * There are snowmobiles available for emergency use.
  * Always check on the boiler every. . .whole place will blow sky high if you don’t.
  * The radio is to contact authorities, if need be.
  * Phone lines **will** go down. You won’t be able to call for help.



Already Jessica steered Ainsley out of the room with Malcolm following her and picking through her thoughts unsure what to be more afraid of _boiler_ or Martin out there somewhere. He couldn’t remember either why his father had to go down there so many times. His job contrasted Malcolm’s. Malcolm pieced together a mystery in between ghost hauntings and Martin did what? What did he do? Hopefully, he did it.

Outside the room, there wasn’t a sign of Martin. They continued into the hotel lobby which was wide and empty. A silence moved through it as if the hotel was tired of its crying. Good, good, good. 

Malcolm needed a moment of peace to think. Still, his mother had no idea what happened beyond the hotel between him and John Watkins. He stabbed a man. He stabbed a man. He actually stabbed a man out there who could still crawl right back at them, dead or alive. He could crawl right back into the hotel. Beating hearts didn’t matter here.

Jessica looked between the steps and the elevator. Anxiety prickled inside of her. It was all scratchy like a sweater causing more static than dryness in the winter. She moved toward the elevator reaching out to hit a button. It ticked away making a come back to the floor. Malcolm stood there looking around the silent, silent, silent lobby. Exhaustion continued to weigh down on him but he closed his eyes and gulped like air would wake him right back up again. 

_Be careful!_ he shouted out for Gil hoping he’d hear, he said he was near. 

Right as the elevator doors opened, he spiraled around to look at them, eyes wide open. For some reason he expected blood to pour out and drown them or to see body parts crushed together to rain down on them. Neither of these things happened, instead, it was a regular elevator waiting for them to enter as if they were regular people in a regular situation.

Both Jessica and Ainsley entered the elevator while Ainsley asked for something else for dinner. All she wanted was a soda, which had Jessica rolling her eyes. Such caffeine and sugar was not ideal at any time and especially not good for a child at that point in the night. Sleep would be nice for all of them.

“ _Malcolm_ ,” she snapped.

She just wanted to get out of there. Malcolm stared at the elevator unable to move onto it. Instead, he looked both ways out in the lobby. The doors to the hotel were closed. Well, the front ones were closed. And the back ones to the maze. . .were open. Snow floated into the lobby. There was already a layer on the floor.. 

The elevator complained because Jessica held it open for too long. “Malcolm, you need to get in here right _now_. It is dangerous to make an elevator wait.” 

Malcolm entered it standing beside his sister and mother watching those big brass doors close. There weren’t that many floors to pass by to reach their room yet it felt as if they were already inside for a long time. Not even a minute passed. Yet the elevator ticked, ticked, ticked away at different floors before it beeped claiming an unexpected stop.

Jessica and Ainsley looked up at the floor count. The doors procrastinated in opening but soon they slid open to an empty hallway. This was only floor two, which maybe made sense. Nobody got in. Why would they? Unless it was Martin. There were no other living humans in the Overlook. Malcolm watched the empty hall as it faded away with the door starting to close.

They almost made it.

But a hand caught the doors. Somebody was on the other side reaching in and forced the doors open again. A young woman stood there. She was maybe nineteen or maybe she was twenty. Her thoughts were a muddle that Malcolm couldn’t make sense of. All the letters felt so convoluted it was as if anxiety forced her to think in absolute gibberish. She wasn’t really here. She wasn’t really here. Jessica gawked at the woman while Ainsley took a step back. It was obvious how alone they never were.

The woman entered the elevator and ran her fingers along all the numbers lighting it up like a Christmas tree. Malcolm watched her. He knew her. Not really. But he knew of her. She stared at the buttons. The doors took forever to close all over again while she watched the numbers stay lit up.

“Um. . .can I help you?” Jessica asked.

The doors shuddered coming close to closing but the woman stopped it from happening. She moved to look out, she looked back and forth in the hallway. Malcolm followed. He, too, looked at the empty hallway until his face almost hit the woman’s. They were looking right at each other. Noses so close to touching. He moved back a bit closer to Jessica than her.

“What-How. . . _How_ did you get here?” Jessica asked, sizing the woman up.

“She lives here now,” Malcolm whispered.

“What? No, that doesn’t make sense.” Jessica stared at the woman. “Do you. . .Do you work here? She can’t live here.” _They said it’s just us. Just us live here._

The woman rested her back against the number panels without saying anything. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The gibberish in her mind racked up louder and louder causing Malcolm to wince. Her thoughts were so loud, it was hard to hear anything else in his head.

All he knew from notes and papers and research were her initials and when he said them out loud, “L E,” it sounded more like Ellie. She kept her back against the number panel. The doors shut and it started to move up. She’d been in the elevator with little timestamps in the corner saying **11:05; 11:06; 11:07; 11:09** before she looked out again at **11:11**. She’d make it all the way up to the top floor before disappearing. Malcolm had found an image of her labeled: **Last known image**.

“What’s out there?” Malcolm asked.

L E glanced at him without providing an answer.

“Help us. What’s out there?”

Jessica stared. She was at a loss for words since Malcolm started talking. At least, she was at a loss in sparing words out loud. _Squatters? Do we have squatters? Where’s Martin? Where the hell is he?_

L E peered at the doors out of the corner of her eye. The doors opened back up again but they got no answer because Jessica pushed them out. L E stayed inside. When Malcolm looked back, he spotted her looking both ways again before she disappeared inside letting the doors closed.

“Must be because of the snow,” Jessica found words to say out loud. _She probably got lost in the mountains._ “She probably needs somewhere warm. We’ll take the stairs, ok? You, um, you do. . .” Jessica looked ready to say something else to L E to encourage her, but with L E ignoring her, she just gave up.

“What if I only have half of a soda?” Ainsley continued on the same conversation. “Or less than half?”

“Fine! Fine!” Jessica tried to pick up the pace a little heading down the hallway. It stretched on and on and on, which was always wild about this place. No matter where you went, it seemed to defy physics. An example of infinite space. “You can just. . .you just have the whole soda. Now hurry up.”

Again with the faster pace. The three carried on and came so close to making it without stopping but Malcolm had to pause. The Overlook Hotel had been so quiet up until then. It wasn’t screaming or wailing it wasn’t warning them or begging for murder. No children were falling from its sky and the elevator no longer beeped, beeped, beeped its way up. But the clear, clear sound of hinges scraping against one another was clear.

Still, Jessica and Ainsley continued forward toward the stairs while Malcolm stood there turning knowing for sure what he was going to look at. The door opening up to Room 217 with the light inside stumbling out into the hallway. Her song was even flung out from the room full of static and beckoning. _You must remember this. . ._

“MALCOLM!” Jessica snapped, grabbing him by the elbow to yank him away from Room 217. “COME ON!” _Weneedtogoweneedtogoweneedtogo. Something isn’t right._

Jessica did her best to drag Malcolm away not even noticing the open door with its music sinking out.

_It’s the same old story, A fight for love and glory, a case of do or die. . ._

“. . .No. . .” Malcolm tried to whisper, he tried to get it out and clear for Jessica to hear but she continued to drag him away.

“What are you doing? MALCOLM! Come on! Come on, Malcolm!”

“Alexie and Alexa!” Ainsley exclaimed pointing down the hallway forcing Malcolm and Jessica to instead look. The twins stood between them and the door to the staircase.

“You said you would play with us, Ainsley,” the twins said.

“On second thought. . .” Jessica released Malcolm and grabbed Ainsley “. . .Back to the elevator.”

As they passed Room 217, Malcolm had his chance. He looked inside, not spotting anything unusual. Already Jessica was reaching for him. To move him toward the elevator. They needed to get a move on and get a move on fast. It wasn’t just the topiary creatures outdoors that would eat them alive. Right before Jessica could pry Malcolm away he spotted some movement, a shadow in the bathroom, the woman in there.

 _Help me_ , she shouted at him but they needed more help.

Jessica jabbed her finger into the buttons. She hit both the up and down button over and over again forcing either or elevator to make it there. But none of them appeared to be moving. At least, they didn’t make a sound. What did was the twins moving toward them. But Malcolm looked at them thinking over earlier. 

Yes, the ghosts could hurt them but he could also hurt them.

Malcolm glanced at his sister wanting to say sorry but she was preoccupied spotting the fact that the elevator was moving toward them. She moved on demanding to hit the buttons that time around. Just like L E. She wanted to hit them all and so Jessica agreed.

The twins moved closer and closer to them. Malcolm inhaled, deeply. It was almost like earlier. He could count and feel the actual seconds as they were passing right by him. Somewhere in between blurred memories, he knew their story and he knew what happened. Inside a magazine, he found the last known image of the girls along a story about their father, the family annihilator. The hotel didn’t look too different back then.

Jessica was muttering out loud the whole time, almost a distraction. “Come on, come on, come on.”

“Ainsley,” the twins said again but Malcolm did his best to move between them. 

It looked easy, probably. Him taking a step in front of his sister, but it didn’t feel easy. Still, he planted his feet to the ground with his heart quivering in his chest. A lot of fear but pretty reasonable seeing how an inanimate object wanted to eat them up with all the ghosts stuck in its insides.

 _I know what happened to you_ , Malcolm tried. It was easier to sound braver without his shaking voice. _I read about it in newspapers and magazines._

The twins tilted their heads to the side to get a better look at Ainsley. “Ains, why won’t you play with us?”

Jessica punched the buttons but the elevator didn’t seem interested in helping them out because it was the stairs that they needed to take but creepy children were in the way. She glared at the girls. Nobody else was supposed to be in the hotel. All the roads were closing down with the snowstorm, too. How were so many people there?

“M. . .Malcolm. . .” Jessica snapped trying to evade any other thoughts.

 _He killed you with an ax before he shot your mother and himself. . ._ Malcolm finally held the twins' attention. _I don’t know why but-but I can try and figure out why._

The twins stepped forward a bit, they tried to close that space between them but Malcolm reached out. He pushed the air between them and knocked the girls backward, flat on their backs. All he thought was PUSH and so it happened like he shoved the wind forward into them blowing the door to Room 217 wide open.

 _It wasn’t your fault_ , Malcolm continued and he took a step forward only to stumble. 

Pain sparked up in his shins and his hips. Not to mention the growing tiredness. Somewhere in the back of his thoughts, he kept on thinking that he could reach out and push, keep the girls down on the ground where they stayed. The door to Room 217 rested on the ground, he broke it straight off the hinges. Because what? He was dangerous. A danger to the ghosts who were dangerous to him. 

_It really wasn’t. You-You-You didn’t. . ._

“Deserve it?” Alexie said first, not that any of them could tell the difference.

“Isn’t that what they all say,” added Alexa. She rolled her head to the side looking at her sister. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t deserve it.” And Alexa used Alexie’s shoulder to sit up looking at Malcolm there. His fingers quaked while he tried to keep her down but she sat upright there then her sister sat up, too. “Life doesn’t work that way.”

“It’s-It’s-It’s his fault!” Malcolm yelled. 

Somehow he could picture their father coming straight down the hallway, an ax in hand about to five forty whacks. Twenty for Alexie. Twenty for Alexa.

“I-I. . .I read all about it!” 

His free hand ran through his hair, pushed it back from his face as if that’d help him with focus and non-exhaustion. Something tickled his nose, he ignored the growing itch. Their father was still coming right at them, he was moving along the infinite hall, it kept on stretching and stretching and stretching. His muscles taut and ready to fight. Forty whacks, split between two girls. And them too if they got in the way. But not really. There wasn’t wasn’t even right there. Somewhere. It was a piece of the past Malcolm plucked forward in his mind, scaring himself more than anything.

“Your-Your father. . .So your father is what-what _they_ call a family annihilator. . .”

The girls stood up asking in unison, “Who is _they_?”

“Adults?! Smart people?! Psychologists? People with degrees?! I’m not too sure but I can learn more, I promise.” His itchy nose bothered him more and more and he went to scratch it. Only his fingertips touched slick blood. He looked down at his hands. His nose was bleeding. Malcolm tried to stop the bleeding but it was hard because it wasn’t like he had a tissue and he needed to keep on speaking up. “He killed you because he was paranoid, he couldn’t protect you anymore, he wanted to protect you and thought maybe killing you would be the only way.”

“Protect us from what?” the girls asked again in unison.

The elevator rang as it arrived.

There were other reasons why familicide happened. Maybe Malcolm was wrong, he wasn’t an expert. 

“Or maybe he thought or saw you as, um, objects like a status symbol and his life was losing that. . .?”

“Protect us from what?” the two girls asked all over again.

The door to Room 217 laid on the floor. Malcolm lost sight of his vision of their father. There were no forty whacks but langer continued to lurk in the distorted hallway and the messed up elevator. With them gone, Malcolm used his sleeve as an attempt to catch the blood. His white sweater was going to be a mess and Jessica was going to be very angry about it.

Either way, Jessica grabbed the back of his sweater ready to bring him away from the scene. Except he dug his heels into the floor as he stared at the door on the floor then at the gutted threshold. The music continued playing in Room 217 as whoever was in the tub begged for help, for somebody to hear her, to set her free. She didn’t come near any of them. Good, good. But the girls continued moving around as best as they could. The menacing nature of them earlier was gone and instead, there was something broken from their movement, as if the ax broke their bones and they couldn’t quite work right anymore.

Jessica continued to pry him from the scene even though he kept his eyes on the twins. Their joints still popping as they struggled to move. Their eyes never moving away from him while asking the same old questions: _Protect us from what? Tell us, Malcolm, what was he protecting us from?_

“The Overlook. . .” whispered Malcolm, lowering his hand from his face. He squinted at the twins thinking again and again and again PUSH. He punched the air throwing them back further than ever before. Both of the girls struck the wall and their bodies crumbled to the broken pieces they were once left behind as.

Elevator doors closed and they were back at this again. Ainsley was pressing all the buttons, but they didn’t have far to go. Since Malcolm failed to move, Jessica jerked him into the elevator with her hands fluttering around his face. His nose still bled so she pushed his chin up.

“Um, do that! Don’t. . .Don’t let the blood out!”

Malcolm pressed his soaked sweater sleeve to his face again. The lights are swirling above him, maybe they’re about to go out. Hopefully, it wouldn’t mean the power was going out. It was snowing out there. It could happen. The world was already started to dim on all sides. Jessica was saying something else but it was lost to his buzzing brain. The lights continued to dim, but at least a thought jumped to life. He needed all his notes and they were upstairs in the room where they headed. He went to take in a deep breath, it got caught in his throat, which felt a little swollen as if he’d been screaming too much or strep throat crept into his body. 

Again with the exhaustion.

He was pretty sure he heard his mother saying his name again. Something about it sounded very different. Panic shattered the vowels. Made them tremor as he tremored and Ainsley, too. A lot of fear was going around alongside confusion. How does one escape what they don’t even know? Hard to say. Malcolm stared at his blood-soaked sweater wondering when to start worrying about the fact his blood turned from crimson to black.

MALCOLM!

For another time on the same day, he hit the ground and struck it so hard. It knocked the lights straight out of his sight like he tumbled through the blackness. Nobody was there to catch him or help him or maybe not yet. Somewhere in some other corner, he could hear the soft, soft whisper of Gil going. . .

>   
>  _i'm_  
> 

_here_

>   
>  _kid_  
> 


	38. Thirty-Eight: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil and Martin meet in the lobby of the Overlook.

# Thirty-Eight

**Past**

Of course, the hotel was empty.

Not empty empty.

The lobby was _empty_ as far as Gil could tell and he was good at noticing those sort of things. He exhaled and stood in the middle of the large, large lobby with the only sound being snow scraping across the ground as it entered through a door left wide open.

_I’m here kid!_

No answer.

Just snow striking the ground.

### 

The snow was deep enough for Martin to start sinking, but he’d already been slipping away since setting foot in this place. Wasn’t fair that the Overlook Hotel dug its fingers into him and somehow started to peel back at his thoughts. Letting them split apart and away from him. Letting all his secrets fall out and onto the ground for his children to sneak up on and collect.

Martin continued to sink into the snow as he looked around. The snow didn’t weigh down the branches of the maze. Instead, those branches gutted the sky above. He held tight to the mallet as he made his way forward coming close to holding his breath so nobody could hear him coming. He paused catching sight of blood peeking out from underneath a fresh layer of snow flurries.

Red stripes crossed the snow giving him a path to follow. Martin watched those stripes slice their way through the snow away from the maze and toward. . .and those stripes sliced their way through the snow toward the little building out back. Its door busted open. Some chains were on the ground, melting their way through the snow. He continued to spare no words as he crept up onto the scene, he raised the croquet mallet ready to strike anybody who crossed his path. The _anybody_ being John Watkins who was left out here and wounded thanks to his boy.

Upon arrival, he was informed of all his duties at the Overlook. There was the boiler room to worry about and the topiary trees. He needed to care for the place day in and day out. In the event of an emergency as such, the weather would close the roads down with snowmobiles left behind to help guide them to town. Inside was a radio to call for help, if need be. Only Martin stood there looking at where the snowmobiles were to be.

Well, there were some left.

Martin was told there were five inside the building, but there weren’t five. There had been five, he knew it. He was sure of it. He checked again and again. Five, there were five. But now there were three and the three were broken. Some blood spilled across the ground by one, which meant John Watkins was gone. He got away. Malcolm stabbed him. But the other? How curious?

Somewhere behind him, he heard some shouting. _MALCOLM!_ Except that wasn’t Jessica or Ainsley. Somebody else was inside. _MALCOLM!_ That was a problem. Martin looked back at the snowmobiles. Two gone. Three broken. They couldn’t leave this place if they wanted to. _MALCOLM!_

Martin shook his head and started toward the hotel. He marched through the snow spilling back into the lobby. The heat forced some of the snow to start melting causing him to almost slip and fall. A silence greeted him seeing that the walls no longer wailed and the ghosts were no longer speaking up. He didn’t stand alone either. He stood in the middle of the lobby squinting at Gil who stood there more strange than familiar.

Gil stood still staring at Martin without words to spare at first. For Gil, it was more the anger permeating off Martin’s shoulder. He was turning red from the cold, it bit too deep. He wore a red sweater with droplets of melted snow caught on his shoulders. Gil lowered the mallet and while Gil couldn’t figure out the words passing through Martin’s mind. Just that danger lurked either around him or all of them.

“I. . .” Gil began to say but he had no excuse or explanation for his sudden appearance other than the truth. “Malcolm called me.”

“Malcolm?”

Gil nodded about to say something else, but he was cut off.

Martin smiled and shook his head. “Malcolm.” Still while shaking his head, Malcolm stepped back to close the door not letting the snow enter anymore. “I think the storm scared him?”

“. . .Yes. . .” There wasn’t anything else to say. He needed a lie. To figure out a lie. But no ies came to mind while he just stood there staring at Martin with all the danger hanging around.

“Come on, let me make you a drink. Some coffee or tea, perhaps?” Martin still smiled as he signaled for Gil to move away toward the bar room. “It’s cold out there.”

Gil followed as he looked at the ceiling. _MALCOLM!_

_MALCOLM!_

No answers. Gil continued to follow Martin, but he moved as slow as he could manage before dropping down to tie his shoes. Still, he tried to break through the silence, _MALCOLM!_

“Something wrong?” Martin asked. He stood right before the threshold leading into the bar room.

_MALCOLM?_

Gil straightened his back as he stood up looking at Martin still hearing nothing up Malcolm. “No, sorry, shoe untied.”

Something clattered behind him. Whatever it was hit the ground causing both Gil and Martin to whip around to spot Malcolm scrambling across the ground. The main stairs in the lobby, he fell off the bottom few before getting back up. In one hand he had a notebook with some papers that billowed out over the ground like the snow outside. He stood up, his wrist trenched in blood, which was only clear thanks to the white sweater he wore. There wasn’t a sign of Jessica or Ainsley. Just Malcolm getting back to his feet.

Martin smiled. “Ah good, my boy!” He remained where he stood. “What happened to your hand?”

Malcolm looked down. “Nose bleed.”

“Well, next time we’ll get you a tissue to solve that problem.” Martin took a big step backward while Malcolm continued to stand there. He hugged his notes to his chest taking in the moment. There weren’t any ghosts present here anymore. The ghosts were somewhere though. They sure were somewhere. Martin’s gaze passed from Malcolm to Gil. “How about that drink?”

“Sure,” Gil said while he kept an eye on Malcolm. “Thanks. . .”

Malcolm glanced at Martin who disappeared into the bar room. In his father’s exit, he captured moments of the past. The present would’ve been nice because this was wrong. It was all wrong. It was from a time before. Some part of Malcolm wanted to believe, truly believe it was the Overlook Hotel that forced such pain onto Martin’s shoulders. Gil sighed as he started to follow Martin, but with his back to Malcolm, Malcolm warned him.

_don’t_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's back to the present for a bit after this! So back to some. . .Alone Time.


	39. Thirty-Nine: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil vs. Martin. But with words and in the present.

# Thirty-Nine

**Present**

_This is a bad idea._

Gil says this as loud as he can manage. Just in case Malcolm is out there, hearing his thoughts as he moves along about to visit his father. A dreaded visit. Gil half wishes to broadcast his movements and begrudged thoughts because if Malcolm is listening, he might get a kick out of it. He does love to laugh at his own trauma. 

_If this goes poorly, I’ll never let you live it down._

The "you" being Malcolm who is nothing but silence in this world, but not because he’s dead. Another reason, right?

Gil slowly enters to find Martin not turning around fast enough. It appears nobody warned him about who was about to visit by the expression on his face. A description for said expression? Not one Gil wants to dig for. His head is already hurting thanks to little sleep and clenching his jaw.

But Martin does smile, he looks surprised, so surprised, and half in aw as he looks Gil up and down not even saying a word. His thoughts are nothing but a whisper Gil avoids tuning into. It’d take too much energy from him and he’s already beyond exhausted. _What the. . .Ok, ok._

Martin huffs and murmurs, “Lieutenant Arroyo.” He pauses again, sizing Gil up. “Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. You know, the last time you surprised me like this. . .

Snatches of the past flare-up. A memory of the Overlook and Martin finding Gil standing in the lobby of the hotel then leading him away, and Malcolm arriving to warn him

_don’t_.

What does Martin really know of his son he’s so obsessed with?

“I still owe you that drink, don’t I? What was it? Tea?”

Gil doesn’t flinch. He stands there doing his best not to emote more than ready to play these games. They were bound to happen at some point. “I switched to coffee.”

Martin gasps and laughs at the same time looking more in shock than he’ll ever admit. He can’t quite stay balanced as he takes in this deadpan snarkiness.

“You need a chair?” Gil asks. They don’t have time for these games. “You don’t look so good.”

“Oh, are we saying our inside thoughts now, Gil?” Martin’s snickering.

What does he really know? Gil can’t help but smile a little at this.

Martin’s snickering morphs into something with an edge, something dangerous. After all, he is a dangerous, dangerous man. “‘Cause there’s a few I could say.”

Nothing would surprise Gil, to be honest. Martin doesn’t know that. All those inside thoughts out in the open, dangling before him and Malcolm to see and find. _Stole. He stole him. Stole. My boy._ But there isn’t enough time to play these games. Gil sighs, he shakes his head and instead looks at the floor than Martin for the time being. _Not even fair. Stole. A crime against me, against humanity._

“I’m here to talk about John Watkins,” Gil tries to transform this conversation to one that’ll have a point.

Such a discomforting silence wins after those words. _Watkins_ shut up Martin, both his inside and outside thoughts. There’s nothing left hanging in the air as he gawks at Gil. Hard to tell if it’s fear or anger or hatred, but they all run a similar beat in life. Whatever it is, it isn’t good. The game isn’t afoot.

Martin finds words, “So, Malcolm figured his name.”

Martin wants to play, to keep playing, but the iciness hanging all around them says he can’t. His inner thoughts all frozen and bottled up. Colder than the Overlook. Colder than the blood running through the snow to sabotaged snowmobiles. Martin knew one was missing, he helped somebody take it. The other one missing was a problem and the broken rest was a bigger problem. 

“That didn’t take too long. What was the final piece that put it all together?” Some of the iciness of Martin’s convoluted emotions melts. The idea of Malcolm probably, being so smart. A warmth of pride. It lingers already morphing though. Martin almost snaps, “Where is Malcolm?” This is at Gil, just Gil. Not Malcolm. A hint of desperation stinks in his words though. 

Gil tries to remain on track, “I said I’m here to talk about Watkins.” It’s hard to stay neutral, it’s hard not to sound annoyed, it’s hard to do a lot of things. Malcolm’s gone. Malcolm’s been kidnapped. ~~_Not a lot of happy endings for the kidnapped._~~ “If you want to stay out of that hole they pulled you from, I can’t be the only one talking.” So much for not playing into Martin’s games and Martin isn’t even playing. There’s not enough time. Not enough time. ~~_Not a lot of happy endings for the kidnapped._~~

“Fine, fine.” Martin rolls his eyes. He huffs sounding close to a childish tantrum but seems to get it, there’s no time for games, which can’t go. Just Gil saying _John Watkins_ initiated this reaction. “So, how many lives has he taken?”

Gil is up to bat, not that they’re playing games. Just talking. It’s an interview. An interview for the sake of Malcolm who’s been kidnapped. ~~_Not a lot of happy endings for the kidnapped._~~ “We’ve confirmed 19.” He pauses to add a quirk into their back and forth. “Not as many as you.”

“19’s nothing to be sneezed at.” Martin enjoys this. It thaws some more of the iciness. He’s closing in on that regular brand of charm. ‘It’s what they call a serial killer’s dozen.”

No comment from Gil.

Martin chuckles at his own joke, which turns into some actual laughter as he surveys Gil’s annoyed expression. “Oh, God. . .” But the laughter dies, catching in Martin’s throat. He continues watching Gil’s annoyed expression as _John Watkins_ looms between the two of them. “Uh, have they, um. . .have they named him yet?”

Gil returns to bat. “The Junkyard Killer.” But he swings much hard, attempting a home run of sorts. Malcolm’s gone and ~~he might already be dead~~. This needs to go but with Martin growing more comfortable, that’ll be a problem. Gil keeps his hands at his side as he tries not to emote but remains persistent with a certain intensity. “I need to know where you went. . .”

Martin cuts him off. It’s like he’s stopping him from running to first like Gil never had a chance of winning this game. “I’m sorry--The Junkyard Killer?” The words hurt as if he thrust a baseball right at Gil. Caught it and needs to stop him and hits Gil right in the face. ~~_Not a lot of happy endings for the kidnapped._~~ “Yikes. . .”

“When I said you needed to talk, this is not what I meant. . .” Gil tries his best to win again.

“Forgive me. You probably need help with a. . .profile. Well, uh, the junkyard was a mislead, of course. John _hated_ getting his hands dirty. I mean, for a man who once took his pleasure with human cadavers, he was fastidious.”

This is too much. Gil waits for Martin to pause to break into the conversation. It’s like he’s stuck in some sort of time loop where he comes up to home plate, prepares to bat, either he strikes out or he strikes out before he can make it to first. Never second or third. This isn’t getting anywhere. And the severity of the situation embeds a violence into his following words, “I don’t need a profile, I need location specifics.”

Martin chuckles, nodding. The vague _stole_ still on his brain whenever it comes to discussion about his boy and Gil. “Of course, profiling is more Malcolm’s thing. Isn’t it? IS Malcolm listening to this conversation? You-You wired up?” Excitement bristles up as anxiety stabs Gil. Martin leans forward coming as close as possible. He’d dare to move closer if allowed. “HELLO! My boy!” The desperation is back adding a sogginess to the excitement, it’s like fries that have gone cold and soggy. You want them but there’s nothing pleasant about it anymore.

“Where did you go with Watkins?!” Gil needs answers. ~~_Not a lot of happy endings for the kidnapped._~~ “We need to find his killing ground!” He's almost yelling but trying not to yell.

“I understand. . .!” 

Martin’s gone, he’s still leaning forward, straight away from his conversation with Gil and into an imaginary one with Malcolm who is allegedly listening in on them. 

In Martin’s mind, a wire. 

In Gil’s mind, he hopes Malcolm is listening in but through the shining. 

“We’ve been, ugh, you know, through some stuff! But! I-I-I. . .I can still help you! And your sister!” Not even “his girl” or “his daughter,” but Malcolm’s sister. “I mean, your mom’s probably a harder sell.” Again Malcolm’s mom and not Jessica. Malcolm’s at the center of everything between their two lives, Gil’s and Martin’s, that is. Desperation bites deeper into his words. “Where is my boy?!”

“You don’t get to choose who questions you!” ~~_Not a lot of happy endings for the kidnapped._~~ Gil’s there acting like he’s still in charge. How does Malcolm do it? Do what? Malcolm’s barely hanging on in his life, every moment of his life since the Overlook.

Martin fails to care, he moves closer and closer, grimacing. “No, but I can choose who gets answers.” Such violence, actual, actual violence cuts deep into his voice and digs into Gil’s nerves. He can’t be this close but Martin gets right into Gil’s face with his demands. “Where is MY boy?” _Stole. He stole. Stole. My boy._

Gil can’t move. He’s made eye contact with Martin. They’ve been through so much and there’s no point of keeping secrets. One part of Gil admits the truth to get somewhere ( ~~ _Not a lot of happy endings for the kidnapped._~~ ) and another part of him admits the truth because Martin maybe deserves to know about the ones he cares about ( _Stole. He stole. Stole. My boy._ )

“John Watkins has him,” Gil says with a regular volume, not emotion crashing into his voice. He continues to look Martin in the eye, not letting go. Not letting go. John Watkins has him. He has Maclolm. Kidnapped Malcolm. ~~_Not a lot of happy endings for the kidnapped._~~

Martin stares and stares and stares at Gil as if he’s waiting for a different answer like this is a joke. His brain goes all silent again. Inside thoughts, shatter. Breaking like thin ice. “No. No.” _no_ “No. He. . .No.” 

_no_

“I need your help, Dr. Whitly,” Gil pleads. “Roughly 12 hours ago, Malcolm was kidnapped.” ~~_Not a lot of happy endings for the kidnapped._~~ “Was kidnapped by Watkins. We don’t know where he is!”

_no_

_no_

Martin is teetering on the edge of some other precipice. On the edge of that thin ice _John Watkins_ managed to shatter without even being present. Martin is falling over, looking all drunk, unable to stand up straight. _no no no_ “He’s. . .” _my boy no no_ “If John has him. He’s. . .” _no_ “He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.”

Like a skipping record.

“He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.” _he's dead he's dead he's dead_

Gil continues with his pleading, trying so hard, trying. “Focus! Dr. Whitly, we’re running out of time.”

“He’s dead. He’s dead.” Martin thinks it and knows it, too: _Not a lot of happy endings for the kidnapped_. Violence returns. The sort that’s a sheer struggle for life, to not sink and fall away into such bad, bad thoughts. “No, there’s no time. No.” _no_ “It’s over! My son is gone! He’s dead. He’s dead.” Martin keeps going on until he can’t breathe anymore. He’s grasping for air and falling backward, away from Gil with any chance of recovering the kidnapped. _he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead_ Martin crashes to the floor, shaking. Tragedy quakes inside of him. It can be a real bitch. _he’s dead_

Gil jumps back unsure what to do here other than slamming his fist into the door, screaming. “Mr. David! Get Medical!”

_he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead_

Mr. David is already working towards a rescue, calling for help on the other side of the door. MEDIC! But his words are almost lost over Martin’s gasping for air, and attempt to hang on. _he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead_

What happens to games when a player almost dies?

Meics attempt to help Martin and all Gil can think of saying is. “I need him conscious.” He does. There weren’t any answers. There wasn’t any help. All he got was Martin’s terror and yelling: _HE’S DEAD HE’S DEAD HE’S DEAD_

But Malcolm’s not dead. Gil can’t tell. Just believes. No. He can’t be dead but there’s no comfort in one serial killer terrifying another. Who the fuck was John Watkins and how could Gil mess up so bad in the past that this was happening right now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't wanna spoil the new season of Prodigal Son but there's something from the first episode I kinda wanna add here like to Malcolm's past some inspiration to talents he later works on at like Harvard. I feel like anything is possible at the Overlook.
> 
> Anyway! Thanks for still reading! <3


	40. Forty: Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm and Watkins have some alone time.

# Forty

**Present**

The darkness is unfriendly. Malcolm is lying there, but there _there_ is an undefined space. His exhaustion feels more like a common cold settling in the back of his throat, and sleep would be nice except he tries his best to keep his eyes open. There’s not much to look at just past thoughts playing out in his head. Thoughts of wasps crawling all over his skin to find they were never really there to the twisted secrets of a past he does his best to forget because that’s health. So healthy. 

Something stirs. Its words scraping across the floor to him and he sits up partially. The tiredness trickled down, stuck in his joints. Feels like influenza is settling into his immune system. _HE’S DEAD HE’S DEAD HE’S DEAD_ somebody screams. The walls distort their voice making it hard to tell if he’s listening to the thoughts of someone he knows or listening to the thoughts of some grieving stranger passing by.

“You’re awake?” 

A light turns on and blinds him for a few seconds. It’s not necessarily the brightness but the sheer contrast of absence of light to actual light slicing towards his face. John Watkins is out of sight but he’s gotta be close. Whoever was screaming in their thoughts, it isn’t him. It isn’t him. Somebody else is still out there wailing and wailing, _HE’S DEAD HE’S DEAD HE’S DEAD_. 

Malcolm stays there, he doesn’t have much of a choice considering the fact he’s chained there and there’s certainly nothing fun about the situation. Though he sits up watching John Watkins swing a rickety chair across the room. Its feet scratch the floor, worse than nails on a chalkboard. One is a cliche and the other is a serial killer coming to perch all the closer to him. Malcolm picks his peeling skin around the handcuffs keeping him there and John Watkins slams the chair into the ground and stands to stare.

Of course, Malcolm looks up, squinting with the lights. They’re the time for workers, and somehow make him feel a little dizzy. It was better in the dark, there was more control in that unknown than here with John Watkins, a person he barely knows, a person he still needs to analyze.

“So, it’s all led to this. I can’t believe we’re here now. Together.” 

John Watkins stands there and Malcolm smiles. He chuckles. It's actually genuine, too. There he is sitting on the precipice facing death but also he went from the confounds of a serial killer's home, where he was crafted to this place with a serial killer where he has a front-row seat watching every little thing that makes him tick and chirp. John Watkins sighs as he sits down in the metal seat. 

“Can you feel it?” John Watkins continues. He’s sitting so close and leans forward, his fingers almost hitting Malcolm but he’s signaling to the air around them. “Can you feel it in the air?” Malcolms only wish is that he doesn’t sing that one Phil Collins song, the one that takes forever to start then all a sudden it's a lot of drums out of nowhere.

Malcolm looks around the hazy room, light escapes into all its corners revealing just about nothing. The place is abandoned, dry, hidden, obsolete. What he feels in the air is not a lot. There’s dust falling and critters moving in the walls, but that’s no different than any other corner of New York. He can feel those words spiking around him. It's ripping at the dust, at the fabric of this reality. _HE’S DEAD HE’S DEAD HE’S DEAD_ as if somebody is telling his future. He is the _he_ and he will be dead just not quite yet.

When Malcolm looks at John Watkins there’s nothing. That silence you find in the snow, it soaks up all the sound, all the dangerous sound. He blurts, “Am I your next mission? Are you going to starve me like the others--” 

When he was younger he went through a phase after a school unit reading survival stories. In class, they spoke about how your stomach shrinks from not eating and the idea never left him. It stayed nudged in the back of his brain. A warning to not eat too much. Already he felt too sick all the time to eat or he’d forget about eating food and when he did his brain warned him, _What if you end up lost in the desert? You’ll survive longer with a smaller stomach._ It was so unrealistic. He went near no deserts but here he is, probably about to starve in some undisclosed location. And why was he so afraid of deserts when he traveled so close to events like the Donner Dinner Party? There and here have always proved to be the most threatening.

Malcolm continues through his headaches more, the more he talks. “Force me to atone for my sins?” _There are so many, he’d never remembered them all_.

John Watkins cuts in, some aggravation sneaks its way into his words. “I-I’m finished with that work. . .”

But Malcolm being Malcolm won’t let it go, won’t let him keep on. He breaks straight back into the conversation, that’s if this is a conversation. He’d make it one. Even with his head ringing and his skin peeling. “Oh, so you’re evolving. . .right in this moment.” Again with the chuckling, the actual genuine chuckling because-because he could he not. He picks at his skin as he still watches John Watkins there. John’s jaw hardens. Malcolm is all smiles. “Even if that doesn’t bode well for me, that is really fascinating.”

He practically stretches the word out.

F-A-S-C-I-N-A-T-I-N-G

John Watkins picks at his hair and his beard while shaking his head. Unbridled energy is building up.

So Malcolm goes on. Such perseverance and worry about being lost in a desert and none of it comes back to protect him, to stop him from speaking. “You killed Shannon with a knife, you took his life with your own hands, that’s not your normal method. . .” Malcolm makes eye contact and keeps it, watching the anger brewing inside this man. “. . .For a serial killer to change their technique is rare. It’s-It’s impressive.” Never was there more truth. Malcolm’s only speaking the truth without his brain warning him or stopping him, no his brain is too exciting to take this all in and analyze. He’ll take it to his grave if he has to.

“I don’t care what you think!” John Watkins barks at him, but it’s a lie. It doesn’t take the Shining to know that.

“Of course you do, otherwise I wouldn't still be alive, would I?” No self-perseverance. “There’s a reason you took me. You’re-You’re looking for a connection!” Malcolm would move closer, he feels almost as if he’s pleading, begging, for something, something. Doesn’t know what that _something_ is.

John Watkins’s anger evaporates though. He’s smiling again. “Oh, we’ve always had a connection.

But.

Malcolm knew that.

Just.

He didn’t want to admit the actual truth of it, ever.

“Just like you have with my father,” Malcolm immediately adds, basking in John Watkins’s watchful stare. He’s being observed. Analyzed. It’s back and forth between them. “You needed him, didn’t you. . .as-as a role model. . .” ~~There once was a man, a man who stayed in a hotel, and in that hotel, he lived in Room 217. The man was friends with a boy’s father. The boy lived there, as well, with his family. And in that hotel and in that Room 217, he found a girl left behind in a tub, she looked dead or about to be dead.~~ Malcolm can’t remember and Malcolm can’t shut up. Now that he’s talking, he’s going to keep talking a lot. The words are breaking free, faster than his memories ever do. “A mentor to show you the way?” 

The words.

The words are getting John Watkins to squirm, he’s hitting something important, something so important. And as he moves closer to answer, Malcolm remains chained to the same spot. He starts to pick at his circles instead, his wrist feeling too sore.

John Watkins rolls his eyes. “I liked working with him.” ~~There once was a man, a man who stayed in a hotel, and in that hotel, he lived in Room 217.~~ “And I’m going to like working with you, too.” Such joy, joy enters the moment.

But joy is discomfort. Sarcasm would’ve been better. Malcolm chuckles. He lifts his hands as much as he can. “Well, I’m flattered, but too many people will tell you I kind of like to work alone.” This is his lie. There’s Gil. There’s Dani. There’s even JT. All three might say such words, but hopefully, they all know, he does prefer to work with them. Edrisa would know. John Watkins isn’t even buying it or fails to care. So Malcolm goes on. “Plus, I’m not a killer.”

“You will be.” John Watkins leans forward, he pokes the space right between him and Malcolm. There’s an absence of decay around Malcolm, which is suspicious. The room seems like it should be full of it. Full of bones and maggots. There’s no light without John Watkins wielding it and he can smell him there. The scent of scentless deodorant and so on. It carries the faint, faint hint of laundry. “You haven’t gone through the trials like I did.”

Somehow anxiety bubbles up, Malcolm’s heart is beating a little faster. He doesn’t let it show in his expression. If he shakes, the chains would give way, signaling loud and clear to his building fear. But it’s there. It’s really there. The voice he heard before is gone because maybe he is already dead or just about to be. No. There’s other plans. _You will be_. He grinds his teeth, hearing his molars cracking.

John Watkins stands up, no snark follows his words. Malcolm keeps silent, looking up at the man. His heartbeat causing more pain than anything. Funny how that is. His body is always betraying him, making him feel like death as a warning of death closing in. 

“I emerged a new man after my trials!” Excitement peaks in John’s words, he’s pacing and looks at Malcolm. “And so will you, if you survive.” _You will be._

But whatever happened to the man who stayed in Room 217? Malcolm spent all this time wondering where the girl went, but what about the man. Where’d he go? What happened to him? Did he live? Did he die? Did he kill or get killed?

John sucks in his breath and Malcolm feels the blood from the past on his hands. Its slickness mixed with the cold only winter can provide. It’s not even cold here, in this empty room. Has he killed before? Not John, Malcolm. Malcolm knows John has killed but what if he himself had killed before? He can feel the blood on his hand, after all these years like the wasps crawling up and down his arms and legs. His skin his peeling, it’s bright and red and turning blue from bruises, but there’s no blood slipping its way to his fingers.

And Malcolm is stuck there, wordless, watching. His heart still hurting him the most. He can’t even get a good breath in like his lungs want to end him first so he won’t go through whatever pain John Watkins has planned. Maybe it’d be the best. There’s two options and only two options presented here.

Die or survive to kill ~~again~~.

John Watkins moves, grabbing a bag and unzipping it. Those chains give way signaling to Malcolm’s fear. His hand won’t stop shaking and he could really use his lungs again. He sits there watching John Watkins go through his next movements.

 _Gil!_ Malcolm tries again knowing it’ll get him nowhere instead it gets him stuck in a brief flash of the past of him once again shouting for help, shouting for Gil as Watkins’ movements shatter his thoughts, breaking his connection with Gil. So long ago, Watkins struck him down, into the ground and a half defenseless Malcolm took his pocket knife and found it in him to use it, he dug it into Watkins’s side feeling the blade pop and shred the man’s skin.

That’s what happened to the man in Room 217.

He didn’t die though, he stood in front of Malcolm digging through a bag with some tools. A hammer appeared to be present. The rest Malcolm couldn’t really make out from where he sat. Out of nowhere, Watkins was right there. His face is so close. That faint, faint scent of simply laundry permeating from him.

“You stabbed me,” he informs, but Malcolm knew that. He could still feel the sticky blood on his hands. “You stabbed me and left me for dead.” Out there underneath the watchful eyes of the Overlook Hotel. Watkins moves even closer to Malcolm, their noses almost touch. There’s no more humor Malcolm can scrounge up to defend himself. Watkins pauses and Malcolm continues to crouch there with nowhere to go, nowhere to run. “Well. . .”

The motions make more sense, at first, then they don’t. So fast Watkins drives a knife into his side, it cuts straight through, nicking a rib. But there’s no pain at first. Malcolm gawks at Watkins not making sense of it then Watkins twists the blade as if flicking on pain, it erupts, such searing energy erupts across him and Malcolm chokes on the pain. 

_GIL?!_ Malcolm shouts in such a desperate plea. He almost even says the word out loud, but it doesn’t seem like his mouth will work or anything else ever again.

Watkins whips the knife right out and pain continues to shudder throughout him. As if Watkins is a ghost, he’s already gone and Malcolm is left on the floor. He’s watching the blood spread across his hands, his blood. Nobody else’s. The pain grows, it drowns the earlier words out. _You will_ and he can’t even think of the _He’s dead_ because soon there is nothing, nothing, nothing, just him, his blood, and pain. Darkness returns. Malcolm can’t even see himself dying alone down there (the where still being in question). He holds onto the wound with one hand while his other hand starts growing cold. 

With what little strength he has, Malcolm moves to get a look at his other hand. Just moving his head hurts, causing his stomach to hurt more, causes the knife wound to bloom with more pain. He watches as snow creeps toward him. So strange. There’s no opening above him. But snow is here, reaching out, bringing him way back to not where this started, but to the moments after. The moments after he stabbed Watkins, the moments he grew to understand, with or without the ghosts driving his father mad, Martin is a killer. But never him, maybe that’s why he’s going to be killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took forever! Thanks if you're still here reading! This is such a mess


End file.
